


The Little Things in Life

by Squid_Ink



Series: Glue and Duct Tape [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Also no Age of Ultron, And no Vision, And they diverge from canon, Angst, Because canon is a set of guidelines than actual rules, But maybe Pietro and Wanda will show up later, Day 2, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, I think this is the angstiest thing I've written for this fandom so far, I've been to Akihabara and Kamakura --- Amazing places, Jealous Natasha, Mother-Son Relationship, Not In Chronological Order, Prompt 2, Romanogers Week 2018, Sad panda I know, Sam just wanted ice cream, Siúil A Rún, So as of right now: No Maximoff Twins, So... fuck canon, Steve eats Chinese food when he has nobody to cook for, Steve misses his wife, Team as Family, Thanos took an economics class, These are all post Winter Soldier, Thought better about killing half the universe, Trigger Warning: depression, Veteran's Day, also my left big toe hurts, before its outta his system, civil war never happened, he gets about 30 - 60 minutes of the drug, i did calculate how fast morphine metaloblisizes in Steve, i think... if I did my math right, injuries, it gets dark folks, it's late and i don't know what else to tag, its annoying, romanogers week, short story collection, tired Natasha, trigger warning: PTSD, trigger warning: attempted suicide, unhappy Natasha, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-07-04 22:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15850920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squid_Ink/pseuds/Squid_Ink
Summary: It's the little things in life that matter. The little things that make things special. Steve and Natasha understand that, especially with the life they lead. They understand the value of the quiet moments between seconds and the little things in life.





	1. Don't Do This to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Domestic Life of Mr. and Mrs. Rogers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3693587) by [thegraytigress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the risk one took when being married to Captain America. Natasha knew this, a part of her accepted it, but what she refused to acknowledge was how she'd tell her son that his father could possibly die.

It was all over the news. Every radio station she flipped through had reports going about the catastrophe over the Pacific: a hijacked helicarrier, Iron Man, Thor, Falcon, Captain America and the Hulk. The explosions as Iron Man and Thor brought the air ship down, the reporter gasping in surprise as Hulk leaped from the falling helicarrier, Falcon winging away. No signs of Captain America, though. "Shit." She slammed on the breaks, honking her horn. She hated New York traffic; bad enough the news reports were hours old, didn't matter that what the reporters were talking were not just some masked heroes but her friends and husband. None of that mattered to the faceless, nameless people around her. The guy in front of her didn't realize he cut of Black Widow, who was trying to get to the hospital because her husband was half-dead and going into surgery and she wanted — no  _needed_  to be there to make sure he would make it, that he wouldn't die on her. Her thumb pressed the green call button. "Call Barnes," she said in a clear voice.

"Calling Bucky Barnes," the computerized voice chimed, light and cheery. She frowned, slamming her hand on the car horn as she bit her lip. As soon as traffic let up, she slammed her foot on the gas pedal, weaving in and out of the cars not caring for traffic safety laws. She could hear Steve chide her about it and James in the back laughing and saying how cool she was. Only both of her boys weren't here. She was alone in the car.

"Nat?" Bucky's voice came through the speakers.

"Hey, Bucky. I—"

"Have you seen the news?"

No, I haven't fucking seen the news! I'm just barely driving legally in my attempt to get to the hospital. "Yeah, I need you to pick up James from school. Take him home, order a pizza. Let him play with his PlayStation and make sure he does his homework."

"Surprise you're calling me, why not Clint?"

"Clint's outta town at the moment—"

"Was he on—"

"No, he wasn't thank God," she said, breathing a sigh of relief. At least one man in her life wasn't there, but Clint could still be in danger. She just had to trust him — she slammed her foot on the breaks, shocking the jay-walking couple.

"Eyes open lady!" the man called, his girlfriend flipping her off.

She rolled eyes, rolling down her window. "Hey, assholes! Use the damn crosswalk next time!" she yelled. The girlfriend yelled something at her. " _Yebanyye zhopy_." She drove off once the road ahead of her was clear.

"What was that about?" Bucky asked, amusement in his town. "Nat?"

"Damn jay-walkers, nearly ran them over." She rubbed her forehead as she drove. "Please, just—"

"Don't worry, go be with Steve. I'll take care of James."

"Thanks Bucky," she said, "I owe you one."

"Nah. What's family for, right?" he laughed. "Keep me posted, 'kay?"

"Will do," she said and hit the end call button on her steering wheel. She swallowed as the hospital came into view, fighting the tears. She pressed on the gas pedal again, making the yellow light, sliding into the parking spot as soon as the previous car left. She turned the car off and ran inside, flashing her badge at the people working there. Shield may be gone, but her status as an Avenger still opened doors for her.

She ran towards the observation room for the surgery, the doctors and nurses on this level knew her, knew where she was heading. She burst in, the surgery already underway. Tony was there, along with Fury. "Status?"

"Well, I'm fine. Y'know, a few scraps, Pepper will snap at me for getting hurt, but I can make up awesome stories to tell Howie and—" Tony stopped talking when she shot him a withering glare. He audibly gulped. "You know, you can be scarier than  _my_  wife."

"Banner is fine, Wilson has a few broken ribs and a sprained ankle. Thor and Tony are fine." Fury sighed, jerking his chin at the operating room.

"Sam's suit was down. I caught him, hence the broken ribs, don't know how he sprained his ankle," Tony elaborated. She didn't look at either of the two men, eyes fixed on the doctors and nurses, on the man on the steel surgical table, the beeping monitors. She glanced as Tony's reflection joined her, he put a hand on her shoulder. "He'll pull through."

"Status?" she asked, trying to focus, trying to remember her training from the Red Room. Hell, who was she fooling, the Red Room never prepared her for any of this. The Red Room prepared her to shrug and move onto the next mission when something like this happened; to not care about anyone. It never expected her to marry anyone — let alone Captain America — and have a family, make friends, become the woman she is today. "Tony, what's his status?"

"It's bad," he said, squeezing her shoulder. "Guess it brought back memories when Shield fell or something. Three rounds to the gut, his entire left leg broken — they had to get Thor to rebreak his leg cause the bones were already healing on the way over — punctured lung, broken ribs, dislocated shoulder" — he pointed to the reinforced hand and ankle cuffs and the band across his forehead that strapped Steve down to the table — "concussion, he's out cold for the moment, but they don't know if he'll wake up and—"

"Hang in there, Cap, we got you," a doctor said and moments later a flat line appeared on the heart rate monitor. Her heart fell into her stomach, her hands covering her mouth.

"We're losing him!" a nurse shouted as the heartrate monitor began to beep in one single steady tone. She felt the blood leave her cheeks, her knees giving out, Tony's strong hands grabbing her elbows. She watched helpless as the doctors grabbed the defibrillator. "Clear!" they shouted, and Steve's body lurched upward. Tears fell from her eyes as she stood there, shaking. She tuned out their shouting.

"Don't… don't do this to me… please don't do this to me, Steve."

* * *

 

James new something was wrong at lunch. Howie was nice to him for a change, oppose to his usual snarky self. He figured that Aunt Pepper finally had enough for their little rivalry and put her foot down. He also assumed that Aunt Pepper had involved his mother in some form, so he knew he was going to get a good lecture on the drive home. So, for survival he went along with Howie's sudden kindness and didn't think much of it for the rest of the school day. He said goodbye to the Lang twins and gave Howie a nod and met up with Riley as they made their way to his locker. Riley already had his backpack. "Mom said anything about Friday?"

"Nah, not yet," he said, thumbing the dial on the locker. "Said I have to ask Dad."

"Y'know your dad is just gonna tell you to ask your mom, right?" Riley leaned against the locker, watching him as he struggled to get his locker opened. He grunted, biting his lip as he did so. Damn thing always got stuck. He reset the lock and tried again.

"I hate this thing," he grumbled, trying to lift the hatch. Riley put his hand on his.

"Whoa, Jim, let me," Riley said, "don't need the school asking your folks for money cause you broke the locker."

"Right." He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. Riley thumbed the lock. "And don't call me Jim." He hated when people gave him a nickname. His name was  _James_  and people will call him that. Riley hummed and popped the locker open with a soft grunt. "Thanks," he said, looking sheepish.

"What would you do without me, eh?" Riley bowed. He laughed, grabbing his books and shoving them into his backpack and then his lunchbox. "Still carrying that around?"

"What? It has my dad on it," he said, shaking the metal lunchbox he had since first grade. "Still works."

"Just think you're a little old to carry it around, is all." Riley shrugged and closed the locker again, thumbing the dial. He smiled, running a thumb along the image of his father painted on the box. The rest of the picture was fading but he had slathered clear nail polish over his dad when he first got it. Of course, he had a regular lunch box, but he always used this one when his dad was on a long mission. It was a good luck charm of sorts, at least he liked to think so. Whenever he used it, his dad always came back safe and sound (maybe with a few more cuts and a couple more bruises and a bit tired, but alive and that's what mattered). "James?" Riley said.

"Right." He gave a nod and they headed down to the front of their middle school. Most of the busses had left, Riley's mom was waiting for him, a worried look on her face. James glanced at his friend. "What did you do?"

"Nothing, I swear." He seemed tense as they walked towards Mrs. Wilson. She rushed over and hugged her son. "Everything okay, Mom?" he heard Riley asked.

"Just fine baby, just fine," she said and ushered him out the door, he waved bye and James returned it. He frowned, his mother was supposed to pick him up today. They were going to go shopping and cook his father a welcome home dinner. Steaks with steamed mini potatoes and corn on the cob, one of his dad's favorite meals. Only her car wasn't here. He glanced at his watch, it was only two-forty-five, her usual time for picking him up.

"Where is she?" he grumbled as he pulled his phone out. No alerts or texts about change of plans. He unlocked his phone and was about to text her when he saw a familiar car. He let out a sigh of relief though a frown creased his lips. It was his Uncle Bucky's truck. He went out to it anyway. "Uncle Bucky?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Get in kiddo." His uncle jerked his head to the empty passenger seat. James frowned, but walked around and got in. He was about to toss his bag into the back, but so his uncle's gear and gently set the book-laden backpack down between his legs instead, he set his lunchbox on his lap. He buckled up and his uncle drove off.

"Why're you picking me up? Where's Mom?" he asked. He was thirteen and understood his parents risked their lives for a living. It was their jobs as Avengers. Still, his parents tried to keep him oblivious to it. He hated it. He hated sitting around and doing nothing. "Uncle Bucky?"

"She's hold up at the office," his uncle said, turning onto the road and driving away. "Called me to pick you up. Any plans?" he asked.

"Mom and I were going to pick up steaks and some corn cause Dad's coming home. She wanted to make him his favorite." He watched his uncle grimace at that. He realized then that something was wrong, terribly wrong. He knew enough that Fury  _only_  called his mother to do field work when only Black Widow could get the job done. Most of the time — and he knew she hated this arrangement — his mother was working intelligence at Avengers Tower or monitoring the operations and giving his father and the other Avengers intelligence to help them in the field. It had been like that since he was born. "Mom got the day off even," he said.

"Well, something came up, she has to stay late. Called me."

"What about Uncle Clint?"

"He's outta town, remember?"

No. Mom and Dad never tell me anything. "Oh." He nodded, watching the cars go by, the late September sun shining, the weather felt autumn-ish yet the sun clung to summer. He liked this time of year the best. Baseball was wrapping up and football was starting. Most of the time he could convince his dad to play ball with him in the backyard, which devolved into a wrestling match. "I've been able to pin Dad a few times lately. Like, really pin him, not him letting me do it."

"That's good," Bucky said. "Looks like you got all the good stuff." He ruffled his hair. James couldn't help but smile. Bruce had told him at his last physical that his strength will start increasing as he went through puberty. The prediction was he'll equal his father in strength and stamina and surpass his mother in agility and flexibility. Nobody was sure how Erskine's super soldier serum would interact with the Red Room's super spy serum. Every visit to the doctor's involved a battery of tests and blood work. So far, the serums had coexisted harmoniously, everyone was holding their breath now because puberty could send everything into disarray.

"Yeah." He gave a small smile. "We heading home?"

"Nah, going to my place," Bucky said, sliding into the left turn lane and flicking on his blinker. "We'll have pizza and soda. I'll help you with your homework and afterwards we'll play video games."

"On your Xbox?" James rolled his eyes. He was surprised how his dad and uncle took to video games. "I hate the controllers."

"I have a PlayStation, don't gripe," Bucky grumbled as they turned down the street and then made a right. "How's school?"

"Fine, getting As. Try to make a few mistakes here and there on the tests, don't want to show up everyone cause I remember things so easily." He picked at his fingers, before he started to bite his nails.

"Don't do that." His uncle pulled his hand from his mouth. "Your mom does it and it drivees your dad crazy."

I know, I picked it up from her. "She only does it when she's nervous." Just like how I learned to lie from her and a bunch of other little spy things she does without realizing it.

"Doesn't matter." Bucky turned onto his street and into the apartment complex's parking lot. His phone rang then, the caller ID coming up onto the truck's display dash. It said  _Nat_. He reached to press the answer button when his uncle hit the ignore button.

"Whatcha do that for Uncle Bucky? That was Mom!" he looked at his uncle. Something was going on and his mom and uncle were in on it and trying to keep him out of the loop. "Uncle Bucky!"

"Here." His uncle handed him the keyring. "Go let yourself in and get started on your homework. I'll be up in a minute."

"Why can't I talk to Mom?" he asked. He wanted to know what was going on. "Is Dad gonna be late coming home? Is he hurt? Is he hurt bad?" His eyes widened. "Is he… is he dead?" he whispered.

"Course not. Your dad's Captain America, he won't die." His uncle threw an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a hug. "Your folks are fine, bucko. Now do as I say, 'kay?"

James wasn't convinced, he swallowed his questions and nodded. "Okay," he whispered and exited the car, grabbing his stuff and heading to his uncle's apartment. The apartment was sparse and lightly furnished. It was a bachelor pad but with a frequently absent bachelor it wasn't a slovenly pigsty. He set his bag down, lunch box clanking onto the counter and sat at the small table his uncle had. He glanced at the closed door and fished his phone from his pocket. He turned it on. A picture of his parents stared back at him, the iconic Disneyland Castle in the background, Mickey and Minnie Mouse ears on their heads. That trip had been this summer; his dad didn't have any missions for Avengers' Day and the entire team with their families and one friend went for the week. He never had so much fun in his life.

He unlocked his phone and pulled up his contacts. He almost called his mom, but he had a feeling she wouldn't give him answers. He almost called Riley's dad but Riley's mom was acting harried when she picked him up he thought better of it. Uncle Bucky was not telling anything, and Uncle Clint was outta town. That narrowed his options down to one. He hit the contact and put the phone to his ear. It rang a few times before someone answered. "Hi, Uncle Tony."

* * *

 

She didn't know how to process it. Part of her was refusing to process it. This sort of thing happened to other  _unenhanced_  people. This didn't happen to the world's greatest soldier. This didn't happen to her husband, the man that had once cheekily said: if ya get killed… walk it off.

This didn't happen to Steve Rogers. Yet, she couldn't deny facts. "… yeah…" she nodded, licking her lips and wiping her tears. "Yeah, Bucky… I know. Just… just don't tell James. He doesn't need to—" she stopped when she caught Tony's wild gesticulation from the corner of her eye. "Listen, Bucky, I gotta go. Tony's making weird gestures at me, need to turn him down gently." She quirked a weak smile when Bucky gave a weak laugh. "Bye." She hung up and turned to face the man behind Iron Man. "What?"

"Your kid's on the phone," Tony said. She closed her eyes, she didn't know what to tell James. Sometimes her son was too much like his father: impulsive, keen on doing the right thing, blaming himself for things that weren't his fault, that annoying inability to wait. "Natasha?"

"Gimme your phone." She held out her hand and Tony put the device in her hand. "Hey, Jamie, what's up sweetie?" she asked, her voice syrupy sweet. He was getting to the age where her fake calm wasn't fooling him. "Uh-huh. Yeah, you'll be staying with Uncle Bucky for the afternoon, I'll pick you up once I'm done… no, no, nothing's wrong. Everything's fi—" she frowned. "Because I have some things to take care of here and I couldn't pick you up… Dad won't be home tonight." Don't ask why, don't ask why,  _don't ask why_. She clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Dad's mission is taking a bit longer."

"Natasha, he called me and I answered. He's not gonna buy that," Tony hissed, she shot him a glare. He swallowed and rubbed the back of his head. Tony was right, James didn't buy it and pressed her for information. She didn't have time or energy to deal with this. She refused to let her son see his father like this. He wasn't old enough to see his father half-dead, hooked up to tubes that fed him and breathed for him, monitors beeping the only tell that he was still fucking  _alive_.

No.

Even for a thirteen-year-old, she would not let him see his father like this. She will protect him. "James, listen to me," she said, her tone turning icy sharp. "You'll stay with Uncle Bucky for the night if need be and tomorrow you'll go to school. Nothing is wrong. Dad's mission is just a little bumpy at the moment. That's why I'm still at work. I'll call when I can." She sighed when he protested. "James Aleksander…" she smirked when he shut up. "I love you, baby," she said and smiled when he returned the sentiment. "Bye." She hung up the phone and handed it back to Tony.

"You can't protect him forever. What if it happens again and he sees it on the news? Sees his father getting blown thirty feet into the air over the damn Pacific?" Tony said, pointing at Steve in the bed. The room was empty save for the doctors and the machines. She couldn't go in, couldn't stand the sterile smell and the mechanical sounds that kept her husband alive.

"I'll throw the TV out if I have to," she said.

"What about this?" he shook the phone at her and she ground her teeth. "Gonna through this out too?"

"I'll get a flip phone for him if I have to." She ignored Tony's eye roll. "I'm not going to subject my son—"

"You know that shield's going to him when he's twenty-one," Tony said, his voice soft though a bit biting. She paled and for once he didn't gloat.

"Stark?" She took a few steps closer to him. She came up to his shoulders, but she carried herself as if she was twice as tall. "What are you  _not_  telling me?"

"Steve decided this, it was his idea," he whispered, glancing at the man in question, who lied on a bed closer to death than he had been in the ice. "Howie is already building his own Iron Man suit and well… I asked and—"

"Steve just  _told you_  that he's going to give the mantel of Captain America to  _our_  son?" she felt her brow twitch. Steve had never  _once_  mentioned giving the shield to James. She had thought they both agreed they'd let James choose what he wanted to do with his life, not thrust something upon him that he didn't choose for himself.

"Natasha," Tony sighed, "face the facts. James is  _built_  for this. He has both the super soldier and super spy serums in his blood and—"

"He could die," she said, "the serums, nobody is sure—"

"They're both working in harmony, have been since he was born. I mean… I'm no geneticist but it makes sense that your four previous pregnancies failed because the serums weren't working together correctly. You carried James to term. Yeah, okay, things got a bit ugly for the birth,  _but_  all your checkups had him meeting all the markers, right?"

She glared at Tony. "I'm not having this conversation with you, not now." He had a point though, and she hated admitting that. Her first four pregnancies all had ended in miscarriages and James had been a success. The actual pregnancy had been a medical success with James meeting all the markers he was supposed to. The birth had just been difficult but that wasn't a fault on James' part. Helen  _had said_  the birth would be the most difficult part for her. She closed her eyes and heard the door open and close. The doctors left, the lead doctor gave her a wane smile and said she could so see him. She waited for a few moments before going in.

Steve laid on the bed, a tube up his nose and another taped to his mouth. A breathing monitor on his finger and wires on his chest, an IV in his hand. That didn't bother her, she was used to seeing such sights. What caught her off guard was the straps that bound him to the bed. "He's unconscious," she said.

"It's for his protection. In case he wakes up," Tony said, joining her. "Don't want him to hurt himself more. You know how he is."

"He's…" she sniffed and walked closer to Steve, taking his fingers. His skin felt clammy. She just wanted him to wake up. Her knees gave out then and Tony was quick with a chair, catching her and scooting her closer to Steve. "Damn you," she whispered, wiping at her eyes and taking his hand. "You aren't invulnerable, idiot." She smiled up at Tony when he gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. "You should go home. Pepper and Howie need you."

"I know, but so do you."

"I'll be fine, Tony. I've dealt with this before." It was a lie. Sure, she'd seen friends die, Fury was in a similar position and Steve too, once. But back then Steve had been a tentative friend, not her husband and the father of her son, not the man she loved.

"It's different this time," he replied. She gave a snort. "James needs you right now."

"He has Bucky."

"Yeah, but you're his mom and he'll get his answers one way or another. Everyone knows he's Captain America's son, but everyone — even you — forget he's also Black Widow's son."

She smirked. Tony was right; James may not look like her a lot, taking more after his father in physical strength and appearance but there were aspects about him that were undeniably  _her_. "You're right," she whispered, "James is built to succeed Steve" — she glared at Tony — "but it'll be his choice."

"Hey, you need to take that up with him once he gets better." Tony raised his hands in surrender. "But seriously, Natasha, go home. Hug your kid." He quirked a smile. "Like I'm going to do." He gave her shoulder another squeeze. "Promise me?"

"I'll go home later." She felt Tony pat her shoulder as he sighed. She grabbed his fingers and squeezed, watching the ventilator mechanically breath for Steve. "I promise," she said. He gave her fingers a squeeze and walked off. It felt cold in the room all of the sudden; she wrapped her arms around herself, felt her body tremble as she held back her sobs. Steve had splotchy bruises on his face along with cuts. More minor injuries on his arms. It was then she realized that his shield was missing. "Where's his shield?" she asked, getting up to look for it. "Where's his damn shield?" she went over to the little pile that were his things and began tearing them apart looking for the damn shield.

"It's alright," a voice said, she turned to see Bruce, meek and shrinking in the shadows, a cut taped on his forehead. "It's there." He pointed to the shield and she relaxed. "Nat—"

"Don't call me that Bruce, please," she whispered. He nodded and took a tentative step towards her. "Promise me he'll be okay."

"Thor saved him. He was unconscious when he fell, Thor caught him. If he had hit the water—"

"I don't want details, I want my husband," she hissed. "Look at him Bruce… he's…" she took a deep shaky breath, trying to find her center. A few years ago, this wouldn't have been that difficult, hiding her emotions. Things changed, she changed, Steve changed her. She jerked when she felt Bruce's light touch on her shoulder. The tears fell then, one, then two and three until she accepted Bruce's comforting hug and sobbed in his chest, letting him rub her back.

"You need to go home," he said, echoing Tony. "You'll drive yourself mad staying here, waiting for him."

"I don't wanna leave him, he needs me," she said, though she knew there was nothing she could for Steve. She just didn't want to go home and tell her son that his father was fighting for his life in a hospital bed. If she went home, it would make everything too real and she didn't think she could handle that right now. "He needs me."

"What about James?"

"James has Bucky and—"

"He needs his mother too," Bruce said, his voice soft. The lump in her throat was difficult to swallow, she glanced over at Steve, the machines keeping him alive while his body healed. There was nothing she could do, but she feared if she left him he would leave her. "You need some rest and you won't find it here worrying away in the hospital. I'll stay with him, I'll call if anything happens."

"But—"

"Go home," he said, pushing her away. She swallowed, feeling small and helpless, like the small girl she was when the KGB came and took her away from her parents that snowy day in December. She glanced at Steve again, the heart monitor beeping in time with his pulse. She sighed and nodded.

"Okay," she said and went over to Steve's shield. She picked it up, the leather straps flexible and smooth from years of use; she could almost feel the indents of his fingers. He had protected her with that shield so many times. "I'm going home," she announced and walked out of the room.

* * *

 

He knew he'd get in trouble if anyone caught him watching the video, but he had to know, and nobody was telling him anything. The image of his father — Captain America — falling through the sky while the hijacked helicarrier bursting into flames over the Pacific had seared itself into his brain. James almost didn't believe it was real. His father would have never… he shut the video off when his uncle came into the room, looking tired, more so than usual. "Hey, your mom just called, she's on her way to pick you up."

"Oh, okay," James said, putting his phone back into his pocket. He schooled his face into an impassive mask. "When'll she be here?"

"In about twenty minutes, so get your things together." Bucky rubbed his left arm; the metal's gleam muted in the dim light. "You be nice to her, she had a rough day."

No kidding, knowing Dad got blown up over the Pacific. "Okay, I will," he chirped, putting on the façade of the naïve boy that didn't realize his father was dead. He got up from the couch and gathered his things and then helped his uncle clean up. He needed something to do and his uncle didn't stop him from doing it. The work kept his mind from dwelling on the fact his father was dead, that Captain America was no more. It helped pass the twenty minutes and allowed him to think of how to hide the fact he knew his father was gone from his mother.

A knock sounded at the door, Bucky answered it and James saw his mother. Her face was pale, eyes red rimmed from crying but dry. She still oozed strength and stability despite the tragedy. She glanced at his uncle and then at him. "James," she said, her voice soft. He smiled, gathering his things and gave her a hug.

"Hey, Mom," he said, mimicking her soothing tone. He smiled when she kissed his hair. "Work was good?"

"Stressful," she said. "Thanks Bucky."

"No problem," he said, "and kiddo" — James looked at his uncle — "You remember what I said."

"I will, Uncle Bucky," he said and followed his mother out of his uncle's apartment and down to her car.

The drive back was silent. The radio remained off and all he could hear was the sounds of the car and the rain that started. They drove to their house, a secluded neighbourhood outside the city. Their house was tucked away in the back with a big backyard. James thought it was eerie as they pulled up to it, the eyes of their cats glowing as the headlights of his mom's car caught them just right. "Clean their boxes, then shower and get ready for bed." She said as she parked the car and turned the engine off. "You have school tomorrow."

He rolled his eyes. He didn't feel like going to school tomorrow, not with his dad dead. Though he supposed normalcy was a good cure for such a situation. "I don't want to go to school tomorrow," he mumbled. That earned him a sharp glare from his mother.

"You're going to school tomorrow, James," she said. He opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it, smiling for her benefit.

"It's going to be okay, Mom, I promise," he said, though his smile fell when tears welled in his mother's eyes. "M-Mom, it's okay! Don't… don't cry!"

"Oh baby," she whispered, cupping his face. She kissed his nose. "What am I going to do with you?" she asked, brushing some of his strawberry blond hair out of his face. He forced a smile, hating seeing his mother like this. She was always so strong, so brave; sometimes he thought she was stronger than Dad with the way she ran their home and the intelligence for the Avengers. She always knew how to fix something, where something was; her dinners were amazing, and the house was always clean and the intelligence reports shipshape and squared away. He loved her so much and seeing her so broken because his father was dead…  _hurt_.

"It's going to be okay," he said again and felt a bit better when she nodded and let go of him.

"Do as I asked," she said, he nodded, taking the keys from her and going into the house. The cats mewed, greeting him and he went about checking their food and water bowls before cleaning the litter boxes. He took a shower and headed back downstairs. He was a bit surprised his mother was in the kitchen, too stressed to worry that Izzy and Dino were on the counter. The two black cats blinked lazily at him as his mom put on a pot of water for tea. "Didja brush your teeth?"

"Not yet" — he scooped the cats up and set them down — "I will before bed." He hopped onto the stool and Izzy hopped onto his lap. He smiled when the cat started to purr. His mother pulled two cups from the shelf. "Can I have hot chocolate?"

"Of course baby," she said and grabbed a packet of hot chocolate. He knew she was tense, guarded and in a way, he was too. He didn't want her to find out that he knew what happened and she didn't want to tell him. He sucked on his lip as he petted the cat.

"Mom—"

"I've been thinking, James, if you don't… if you really are that worried about me, you don't have to go to school tomorrow." She smiled at him, but it didn't reach her eyes. "But only if you don't want to."

"N-No," he said, "I'll go… if… if you want me to." He accepted the mug of hot chocolate, stirring his spoon around. "Too bad we don't have whipped cream. Dad always put whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles on top…" he stopped, staring down at his drink. Dad's gone now, he won't be able to do that with me ever again. He blinked, rubbing his nose as he looked around the house. Family pictures hung on the archway that lead between the kitchen and the dining room: his parents' wedding, when he was born, his first couple of birthdays, some school pictures, his first baseball game his dad took him to, a trip to the beach, and finally the trip to Disneyland over the summer. His eyes settled on his father's smiling face and James realized that he'll never see his father again: never hear his laugh, never hear him call his name, never hear him say 'I love you', ever again. Ghosts of his memories of his father flitted across his vision as he looked at the living room: him and his dad playing cars and super heroes, the three of them playing a board game for family game night or snuggled up on the couch because it was family movie night, watching the World Series together and cheering on their favorite team (or the next best one, because let's face it: the Dodgers weren't going to the World Series any time soon), wrestling in the living room or sitting on the floor on a snowy Christmas morning with his parents and opening presents before going to Avengers Tower to celebrate with his uncles.

Tears stung his eyes and he rubbed at them. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't going to make his mom worry. He had to be strong for her; he was the man of the house now and he had some large shoes to fill. "It'll be okay, Mom." He pushed the cat off his lap and hopped down, taking his cup. "Let's watch some tv and then I'll go brush my teeth and head off to bed."

He went to the couch, turning on the tv. It flicked onto the last channel watched, which happened to be the news. He watched the same footage of his father falling as the helicarrier blew up; the tears fell then, and he took a big swallow of his hot chocolate, ignoring his burning tongue. He would stand strong; his father would've wanted him to do that at least.

* * *

 

Natasha stared, watching that horrible footage again and her wasn't quick enough in turning off the tv; James stood rigid with trembling shoulders as he drank his hot chocolate. There was no avoiding it now, she'll have to tell him. On soft feet, she padded across the room and wrapped her son in a hug. "Shh, shh, it's okay baby, it's okay," she cooed, smoothing his hair. She pulled his cup from between them, so he could wrap his arms around her. She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, smelling his hair, swaying to and fro. "It's okay." If she said it enough times it was going to be true, it had to be.

"Why did he have to die?" James asked, his voice muffled. "I miss him." He held her tighter. "I… I never got to say sorry."

Natasha closed her eyes, forgetting that James and Steve had gotten into an argument about something — something stupid now that she thought about it — before Steve left a week ago; both of her boys had bruised egos and Steve felt as the parent, he shouldn't apologize first. She had tried convincing Steve to call James before leaving but clearly that never happened. "James," she said, pulling away from her son and leading him onto the couch. The broken teary face of her son broke her heart more than seeing her husband lying in the ICU. She wiped his tears and pulled him close, snuggling him as the plush cushions enveloped them. "James, he's not dead."

"What?" James looked up at her, cheeks stained with tears and eyes big and watery. "But… I saw it! On the tv… on my phone! Dad was falling from the helicarrier and—"

"Thor caught him. He's alive… but… but hurt very badly. He's in the hospital right now." She smoothed his hair, wiping away his tears. "He's going to get better James, I promise."

"C-Can I see him?" James asked, sniffing and rubbing at his eyes. It was the one question she didn't want to deal with; she could barely look at Steve herself, and yet her son was asking to go see his father, broken and lying unconscious in a hospital bed. "Tomorrow?"

"Of course sweetie," she said, knowing that was the only answer she could give. "We'll go see him tomorrow. You don't have to go to school. I'll call the school, explain you'll be gone for the rest of the week due to a family emergency." She hugged her son, feeling better that she had someone to share her pain with. She turned the tv back on, changing the channel to some movie she didn't know but it looked lighthearted and didn't have explosions. It was mind-numbing and allowed her to forget about her troubles. James settled down too, going quiet as the tolls of the day appeared on his face. She looked at him, surprised how much he looked like his father: his jaw was starting to appear more defined, the baby fat from his cheeks disappearing and she could easily see Steve in his face. His shoulders were going to be broad and strong; chest and arms wrapped with thick muscle. The spitting image of his father, and already she could see it coming true.

She stroked his hair, coaxing her boy to sleep and smiling when he finally did so. She'll let brushing his teeth slide just this once. She murmured softly to him in Russian, pressing kisses to his brow. He was on the cusp of manhood, yet he was still so innocent, she felt an overwhelming urge to protect her son from everything; yet knowing she couldn't and shouldn't. He was the son of two Avengers, in a way he didn't get the luxury of remaining sheltered and naïve like some children did. James murmured in his sleep, snuggling closer to her. The movie had ended and another one started. Her phone buzzed, she picked it up, pressing the speaker phone option. "Hello?"

"Hey, Nat." It was Clint. "I just got back, heard what happened. You okay?"

She looked at James, glanced at the cats curled up at her feet. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the midnight hour. "Yeah, I'm fine. I got James. How are you?"

"Okay, bit banged up. Nothing I'll die from," he said. She chuckled, smiling a little as she remembered how Clint told her than in this bitter business you either had to laugh at the horrors or cry about them, no in between. "If you need anything, just let Laura or I know, we'll bring it or—"

"I know. Thanks Clint for checking in."

"Hey, you're basically family. Just doing my brotherly duty and checking up on my sis," he said, and she laughed; it felt good to laugh even though it felt like her world was falling apart. "He'll pull through, I mean… he survived seventy years trapped in ice. If that didn't stop him then this won't."

She nodded. "I know. I know he will Clint."

"Get some rest, feel better, don't stress," he said, they both knew that was easier said than done. She squeezed James closer to her.

"I will, thanks again," she said and hung up after Clint said goodbye. She looked at James, hating to wake him up, but she shook his shoulder and his eyes fluttered open.

" _Mamulya_ ," he asked, his voice thick and sleepy. She smiled at that, kissing his brow. Knowing her son spoke her native tongue warmed her heart and sometimes they'd speak in Russian and Steve would look on confused, it was even funnier (and a bit mean spirited in a way) when Bucky joined in and they'd have conversations that excluded Steve.

" _Moya malen'kaya Yasha_ ," she whispered, nuzzling his forehead. "Time for bed," she said, switching to English. He nodded, and got up from the couch, trudging up to his room upstairs. She watched him go, sighing when he was gone. She drained the cup of cold tea and set both mugs in the sink. She armed the security system and enabled the cloaking system, turned off the lights and headed to upstairs; Izzy and Dino leading the way, two inky shadows in the darkness.

* * *

 

The shower was relaxing, allowing her to unwind from the day she had. It also hid her tears as she thought about how the day  _should_  have gone. The evening should have been with the three of them eating dinner together, Steve helping James with his homework. It should have ended with her and Steve in bed together, his fingers tangled in her hair as he pressed searing kisses to her throat while settling himself between her thighs. The fact that it didn't, pained her and frustrated her. She turned the water off, toweling herself and pulling on her pajamas. She brushed her teeth, trying not to look at Steve's toothbrush. He still used a manual instead of an electric. She spat and rinsed and was about to leave when she noticed a cucumber facial mask sitting next to her face cream.

"Hold still," she chided, putting the gooey facial mask on Steve's face. His hands slipped up her sleep-tank causing her to giggle. "If you keep doing that, this stuff'll get into your eye and then we'll have problems."

He chuckled. "I think we already have problems, Nat," he said. She shook her head at that, smoothing the goo on the right side of his face. How did they end up in this situation, she had no idea. If she was honest it was probably because Tony said something, and Steve came to her defense, so now Steve's ego wasn't letting him quit and that made her smear gooey cucumber facial mask on his face. Still, it wasn't every girl that got to say he husband subjected himself to beauty treatments. "Am I beautiful yet?" once she got half his face covered. "This is supposed to make me beautiful right?"

"Oh my God," she laughed at how  _serious_  he sounded. "Steve, you—" She shifted on his lap, and he gave a soft groan.

"Well, am I?" he asked, he had closed his eyes to make sure none of the goo got into them. "Tell me Natasha, am I  _fergalicious_?" That suave boyish smirk appeared on his lips.

She bit her cheek to keep from laughing too hard and set the tube of facial mask down otherwise she would have squeezed it all out in her mirth. "Where did you… how the hell did… did Tony tell you that term?" she asked between laughs. His grin widened and she yipped when he lightly pinched her skin.

"Why don't you find out," he purred. She pushed him back a little bit and continued apply the mask to his apollonian face.

"Mouth shut," she said, apply the goo to his upper lip. He hummed and in a few minutes, she got the other of half of his face gooped up. She snapped the bottle close, rubbing her hands together to get the stuff off her fingers. "Now, you have to let it sit for a few minutes until it's all dry."

"And then I'll be radiant and beautiful?" he asked, blinking his eyes open. He tried to smile but the right half of his face was starting to dry. "Ugh, I feel it drying. It's tight and itchy."

"Don't touch it," she said, grabbing his hand. He pouted, she giggled, playing with his fingers. She should tell him, but at the same time she didn't want to. What if I lose this baby? It'll be my fifth miscarriage and we've already had so much heartache trying to have a child. Steve wrapped his fingers around hers, causing her to look at him. There was a tenderness in his gaze.

"Whatcha thinkin' about, darling?" he asked, voice soft, one half of his face shiny and the other gooey looking. She smiled a little bit, bringing his hand to her cheek and she leaned into his touch. "Nat?"

"I'm pregnant," she said, and waited, watching the emotions dance across his face. He may be reserved around others but in this tender quiet moments he wore his heart on his sleeve.

"You mean… I'm… That's amazing, Nat! I can't believe" — then his face fell as he put a hand on her stomach — "will we lose this baby too?" he whispered. Her heart broke at the desperate pleading tone in his voice. It had been a long three-year struggle with four miscarriages and so many false positives. So many times, they had gone to bed hurt and frustrated and angry because they couldn't conceive a child. It was getting to the point that she even worried about her marriage and was looking into marriage counseling.

Still, she smiled because — despite the fact that she  _could_ miscarry — it was good news. "I'm twelve weeks, Helen and Bruce think there's a good chance this one can make it. It's a week longer than the last one."

He hummed and scooted her off his lap as he repositioned himself onto his belly and rolled up her sleep-tank. "Hey baby," he said, gently poking her stomach, "this is your daddy speaking. I wanna tell you something, you're a Rogers and that makes you a fighter. So, hang in there, don't give up. Your mommy and I wanna see you and hold you and give you all the love we have." He smiled, looking up at her; the facial mask was starting to peel. "That means you have to keep fighting, don't give up because we're waiting to meet you at the end of it." He gave her a belly a kiss and smiled at her. "Do you think she heard me?"

"What makes you think it's a girl?" she asked. "Hold still, it's dry." She began to peel the mask off. "And I think  _he_  heard you loud and clear." She shifted and there was a soft thump as the tube of facial mask fell to the floor.

She traced the tube of facial mask, a smile on her face. James held on and nine months later, she had her baby boy in her arms. She never seen Steve so happy. It almost seemed unreal that it was thirteen years ago, it felt like yesterday when James was born. She heard her phone ring from her bedroom. "Shit," she grumbled, running to it and almost tripping over the cats and she lunged for it. "Hello?" she asked, putting it up to her ear. "Bruce? Is Steve —" Please don't be dead, please don't be dead,  _please don't be dead!_  "— he's awake? O-Okay, I'll be over soon. Just lemme call Bucky. Thanks." She hung up and called Bucky.

* * *

 

James woke to the smell of pancakes and sunlight streaming into his room. Izzy and Dino had made a little bed for themselves at the foot of his bed, their bright eyes the only points of color in their inky faces. He glanced at his bedside clock, the time read nine-thirty. "Damn," he grumbled, throwing the covers off him and made a grimace as he realized he said a bad word. He threw on his clothes and raced downstairs only to see his uncle flipping pancakes. "Uncle Bucky?" he asked, confused as he took the offered plate of syrup drenched pancakes. "Why are you here?" he asked.

"Your dad woke up in the middle of the night. Your mom left to go be with him," Bucky said as he sat down. "We're going to go visit after breakfast."

"Dad's awake?" James asked, a hope welling up in his chest. Bucky nodded. "He's going to get better right? Now that he's awake?"

"Eat your breakfast," Bucky said, and James huffed, but dug into the fluffy sweet pancakes. He chewed thinking of all the times his dad made pancakes. While his mom made amazing meals, it was his dad that was truly the hidden chef of the family. His dad cooked whenever he could, and James loved it. "Now, James—"

"He's gonna be happy see me! I'll tell him I'm sorry for arguing with him and—"

"James, kiddo, slow down," Bucky said and put his metal hand on his hand. He looked up, saw the worry looked in his uncle's eyes. "Your dad took… well, he did die —  _briefly_ , the doctors brought him back — it's a… well, it's not going to be pretty."

He forced himself to swallow the lump of food in his mouth. It was too much, to know that for a moment he had lost his father. He gripped his fork tighter. "But he's okay now right?" he asked, staring at his pancakes.

"Yeah, yeah, he is," Bucky said. "But he's still pretty banged up, probably won't be able to go home for a few more weeks."

He nodded, trying to eat more of his breakfast, having two super serums in him made him hungry more often than normal kids, plus he was a growing boy. He ate, though it was laborious, and the pancakes tasted like ash in his mouth. He kept thinking about his father and hoping if he was going to get better. Once he finished, he went to the sink and put his plate in sink. He pulled out his phone and stared at the picture on his lock screen. "He's going to be okay, right?" he asked.

"Go brush your teeth," his uncle said, "then we'll go and of course he will. You're dad's Captain America."

But he's my dad first. James didn't say that, he instead nodded and did as he was told. They left a few minutes later, James watching the bright streets as they drove pass, wondering about the people in the cars and on the sidewalks and city buses. Did they know his father was in the hospital? Did they care? Probably not. He sighed, closing his eyes, trying to not cry. "What did the news say?"

"About what?"

"About Dad?" James looked at his uncle. His uncle wore short sleeves and one of those spandex tattoo sleeves and a glove on his left arm to hide the fact it was metal. "Or did they say nothing at all?"

"They said everyone made it out alive, home safe with their families," he said. "Y'know the usual dog and pony bullsh—  _crap_."

"You can swear around me, Uncle Buck," James said, his tone glum, "I won't tell Dad." His uncle's truck slowed as they came upon the intersection and then to a stop; the light was red.

"Your dad swears, just not in mixed company."

"You mean around girls?" James asked. His uncle nodded. "Why?"

"Because back when we were kids, people didn't do that sorta thing," Bucky explained, "and you still shouldn't do it. Even if things have changed." The light turned green and they began to move again. James huffed, watching the sky slowly disappear as the buildings grew taller until only strips of sunlight illuminated the concrete jungle that was New York. The rest of the drive was silent, James looked through his phone, found nothing interesting and turned his attention to the window. His uncle pulled into the visitor's parking lot of the hospital. "It never hurts to be a gentleman, James," his uncle added. James nodded as he unbuckled and hopped out of the truck. "You coming in?"

"James!" his mother called, he turned and gave her a wane smile as she hugged him. "Thanks Bucky."

"No problem Nat," Bucky said. "Do you think… maybe later I—"

"Steve'll understand, right now the doctors don't want too many people crowding him, afraid it'll overwhelm him." A car screeched along the road, and he looked towards the street, trying to see if he could spot it. He always hated those people that raced down the street. "You can come back when he's a bit more himself."

"Thanks," Bucky said, "it's just that… bad memories is all." James frowned, wondering about what his uncle was talking about. "Remember what I said, James."

"Okay." He watched his mother and uncle hug, and then he gave his uncle a hug too. "I'll tell Dad you made pancakes and he missed out." It was easy pretending to be a kid, sometimes. Especially when pretending allowed him a chance to escape his own fears and eased the consciences of the adults in his life. "I'll tell him you'll make pancakes for him when he's all better."

"You do that, James," Bucky said and ruffled his hair and got back into his truck. They watched him drive away and James looked at his mother.

"Come," she said and lead him into the hospital. He followed, silent and eyes fixed on his mother's back. He tried to not look around, gawking at the rooms as they passed; nurses and doctors in scrubs with gleaming name tags walking pass, the intercom calling for various personal to report to different sections of the hospital, the sick people in the rooms. He wondered about those without any family or friends, if they had anyone that cared about them. "Keep up James," his mother said and he trotted to catch up, her pace was brisk.

They took another elevator and reached a private wing of the ICU. Guards stood at the door and James swallowed as the glared down at him. He felt his mother put her hands on his shoulders. "Natasha Rogers," she said, eyeing the guards.

"Is Dad in trouble?" he whispered.

" _Tikho, a on net. Oni zdes', chtoby zashchitit' yego._ " She squeezed his shoulders and smiled sweetly at the men.

" _Khorosho,_ " he said, as his mother handed over a badge and the bigger burlier of the two guards scanned it. He nodded and followed his mother into the room. He heard the monitors beeping, a doctor talking and a grunt in response. "Uncle Tony," he said, going up to his uncle.

"Hey, James," Tony said, hugging him. "Be quiet, your dad's talking to the doc."

"Why are there guards outside?" James asked. He glanced back at the two men standing guard. "Mom said Dad isn't in trouble."

"Really, Tony? You needed to call Happy and get the security detail?" Natasha said, as she hugged his uncle. James looked around the room. He couldn't see much of it and his father's bed was hidden by the privacy curtain.

"Hey, I don't want some crazy to come and finish the job," Tony said. "Especially when we still don't know who ordered the helicarrier hijacking in—" his uncle stopped talking when the privacy curtain  _shinked_  to the side, revealing the source of the beeps. James' eyes grew wide, and he grabbed his mother's hand; he shook.

His father lied there, at a slight incline, his eyes closed and his face swallow. He could see the small cuts on his face and arms, still red but smaller. An IV attached to his hand, his wedding ring missing. He had blankets up to his waist and wore a checkered blue hospital gown. James glanced at his mother and together they walked up to the bedside. His father's face looked relaxed, a small grimace tweaked his lips down. James grabbed the railing, looking at his mother for reassurance. She nodded, and he put his hand on his father's. "Dad?" he asked, his voice soft and timid. "Dad… Dad it's me, James." He swallowed thickly. "I'm s-sorry, about what I said before you left. I… I didn't mean any of it, okay. I love you. Please—" he swallowed down his sob, and squeezed his father's hand. Please Dad, don't go…. Don't leave ma and Mom.

The silence encroached as the seconds ticked by. Even the sounds of the monitors didn't make a lot of noise. Steve's eyes fluttered and opened, but it was a great effort as he turned his head with the same glacial slowness. "James," he croaked, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Daddy," he said, face scrunched up as he tried to hold back his tears. The dams broke when he felt his father's calloused fingertips on his cheeks. "Daddy."

"What… did I tell ya… about… crying?" Steve asked, though it was difficult for him to speak. James sniffed, wiping at his eyes and holding his father's hand.

"Th-That it's o-okay," he said, hiccupping. Steve smiled, humming in acknowledgement. James cried, shoulders shaking as he held onto his father's hand.

"How's the pain?" his mother asked, James looked up at his, she could feel her fingers run through his hair. His father grimaced.

"Hurts," he said, putting his other hand on his stomach. He shook, sweat beading at his brow. "Morphine don't work… won't give me h-higher dose… so…" he gave her a weak smile. James frowned, sad anew that his father had to suffer in pain.

"Maybe Uncle Bruce will come up with medicine to help you," he said. His father grinned at that, a laugh tried to bubble out of him, but he hurt too much, and it came out as a groan, his grin turning into a grimace.

"James," his mother chided. He sighed, squeezing his father's hand.

"Nat," his father said. His eyes fluttered open again. His mother huffed, muttering something and she pulled up a stool and a chair. He sat down, watching his parents. His mother fussed with his father's collar and his father closed his eyes, a look close to peace on his face. James let his father's hand go and he watched as his father grabbed his mother's smaller slender hand. "I came… back… to you…" he whispered.

"You did," she said, her voice weak. James scooted closer, putting his hand on top of his parents. His mother's other hand snaked around his waist. "You came back Steve. Came back to us."

His father smiled at that, and James knew then that everything was going to be alright.


	2. He Called the Nurse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had called the nurse as she had asked. What Natasha didn't expect was the jealousy she'd feel upon knowing that.

Natasha looked up to see Clint staring at her. Shield was gone, been that way for a year now; the Avengers were all that stood between the world and evil. The Avengers Tower (the newly refurbished tower previously known as Stark Tower) was the base of operations and she had a nice apartment in Manhattan (paid for by Tony Stark). She tore off a hunk of her roll and began to make little balls out of it. "Clint."

"What's wrong?" he asked, sitting down. He pulled out a crumpled paper bag. "Let's see what's for lunch." He pulled out a turkey sandwich, a pudding cup, some carrot sticks. He reached in and pulled out a hand-written note from his daughter. He smiled. "Lila's precious," he said. She gave a smile and went back to picking at her lunch. "How's New York treating you?"

"Like DC. About the same," she said with a shrug. She glanced about the empty room, avoid of people save for her and Clint. The Stark employees all worked on floors one through ten. The rest of the floors were for the Avengers, both for living and for mission work. The elevator dinged, she spotted Sam and Steve though only Sam left, and the doors closed, hiding Steve. Clint stared at her, spoon in his mouth as he ate his pudding cup. "You're supposed to eat your sandwich and carrots before your pudding."

"I'm an adult," he said, "ergo I can eat my lunch however I want." He pointed his spoon at her. "And something's up."

"Nothing's up other than the sky," she replied coolly, pushing the little bread balls around. Sam sat a little ways away from them. "I'm fine Clint."

"You're playing with your food," he pointed out. She looked at the little bread ball man she made and popped its head into her mouth, chewing. He shuddered. "That's…"

"Not that hungry." She gave a tight smile, pushing the rest of the balls over. She tore another piece off and began to roll it between her fingers. Steve hadn't said anything to her all day, not even a polite hello. To be fair, she hadn't seen him all day either, so the fact he hadn't said hello to her didn't count.

"You were watching Steve." Her lips twitched, and he smirked, his eyes twinkling. She glowered at him, throwing a bread ball at his head. He ducked, chuckling. "Do I sense  _pining_  from the Black Widow, Queen of Ice?"

"Don't make me kill you, I'd hate to sully our friendship like that," she said, giving him her best killer smile. As expected it didn't faze him, knowing an empty threat when he saw one. "And no, I don't like Steve."

"Course you don't" — he gave her a big fat stupid grin — "you  _looooove_  him." He yelped. "You kicked my shin!"

"Next time," she said with serious calm, "it won't be your shin."

"You know he took your advice," Sam said, causing both her and Clint to look at him. He speared some pasta on his spork. "Called that nurse. They're meeting for lunch." She felt a cold chill run down her spine.

"Good for Steve," Clint said, smiling, "about time he gets himself back into the dating game."

"Yeah. Glad he got someone special again. Bachelor life isn't for him" — Sam smirked — "there's no shortage of girls wanting to be with him that's for sure. Had a few guys hit on him too."

"Really?" Clint's eyebrows shot up. "I mean, I'd fuck him if I was into that."

"Nah, man," Sam said, "if I were into guys, I'd do Thor. Have you seen him."

"Oh I've seen him, but Steve's—"

She frowned, staring at them as they talked about Steve as if he was a piece of meat. It reminded her how much she found Steve desirable — on a physical standpoint, she won't deny that he was an attractive man; specimen was what that Apple guy had said. — still, she didn't like her friends talking about him like that. "Where?" her voice was sharper than she intended, startling both men. Sam and Clint shared a confused look. "Where is he going?" she asked again, her voice calmer this time. No need to let them know she didn't like the idea of Steve dating anyone. And there I was trying to set him up on a date.

"Uh… think he said something about Panera Bread," Sam said as she got up from the table. "Natasha?" he called after her; she headed towards the elevator.

"Hey, Nat? Where ya going?" Clint asked. She paused, turning at to stare at them with a frown. She was going to spy on Steve and Sharon, of course. "Nat?"

"I'm going to get ice cream," she said, "wanna come? My treat?"

"I'll never turn down free food," Sam said, getting up from the table. Clint packed his lunch, getting up too.

"Me neither, plus Laura doesn't buy ice cream, says I eat it all," Clint said. She rolled her eyes as they got into the elevator and went to the garage. "Which ice cream parlor are we going to?"

"What Panera Bread did Steve say he was meeting that nurse at?" She asked, fixing Sam with a glare. He swallowed, frowning in confusion.

"What about ice cream?"

"It's on the way, trust me," she said. The elevator announced each floor as they met it and continued onwards towards the garage. She leaned against the railing, taking a few calming breaths and closing her eyes. Bad enough that she had to take Sam and Clint along, but it stung that Steve called that nurse. He had brushed off every previous attempt she made to set him up on a date, yet he calls  _Sharon_  of all people. She pouted, knowing she had no right to be hurt about this. Steve was his own person, he can date whomever he wanted to, and she should be supportive and happy for him like any good friend.

Friend. That word… that status… was bitter on her tongue and sour on her heart. She had been his friend ever since the Insight Incident. At first it was nice, she was honest with herself and around him. He didn't have any stipulations to their relationship and she found it liberating. It also allowed her to get in touch with her emotions, display them more openly around him. And that led to her getting attached; she began looking for him in rooms, making excuses to walk with him, talk with him, be near him. She had to see him and if she didn't she was crabby until she did. At first it wasn't so bad, but that had been months ago and now someone like Clint easily notice her change in moods depending on if she had seen or spoken to Steve or not.

I don't have a crush on Steve. Black Widow does not develop crushes. She chided herself. "Huh?" she stared at the two men and realized she was alone in the elevator.

"You okay Nat?" Clint asked. "You seemed pretty lost in thought."

"Really craving ice cream?" Sam quipped, she shook herself and gifted Sam a scowl as she led them to her car. "Okay, someone's pissy."

"Don't feel bad, she hasn't spoken to Steve today," Clint said, "she'll be right as rain as soon as she talks to him."

"I heard that Barton," she said.

"But we're getting ice cream," Sam pointed out, to which Clint gave an amused snort. She unlocked her car and watched her two friends approach her car. "Right?"

Clint opened his mouth, but she beat him to the punch. "Of course, now get in otherwise you're paying for your own cone," she said and got into her car. Clint took the front passenger seat and Sam the back seat.

"That's cold Nat," Sam said once they got in and she began to back out of the parking spot.

"Why don't you just call him on his cell and ask him out?" Clint said, setting his sack lunch between his feet and drumming his fingers along his thigh. Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Be easier than stalking him."

"I'm driving to an ice cream parlor to treat my two friends to ice cream and it  _just so happens_  to be by the Panera Bread Steve took Sharon for lunch." It wasn't her best lie, she knew it wasn't her best lie. Hell, even Sam knew it wasn't her best lie. Still, if she admitted aloud that she was spying — okay  _stalking_  — on Steve, then she'll have to admit that she liked him as more than just a friend; and that was something she refused to do. She would rather face a hoard of aliens and killer robots than admit to anyone she had fallen in love with Steve Rogers. "I'm not stalking Steve, Clint. We're going for ice cream remember?"

"You know nobody believes that," Clint said. "Not even Sam." He looked over his shoulder. "Right?"

"Well, when you put it that way," he huffed. "You know he likes her a little bit."

Fuck. "I know how to pick them," she said as she pulled into traffic, cutting off someone and ignoring their blaring horn. She wove in and out of traffic, making yellow lights. Clint and Sam making comments about her driving. "There's no backseat driving in my car," she said and took a deep breath. She needed her game face on. I'm Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow, master spy. She pulled into an alley, her car bumping and bouncing along the pot hole infested path.

"You're really pissed about this," Clint said, holding to his seat as they bounced along. Sam grunted in the back as the car hit a rather larger pot hole. She gritted her teeth, the Panera Bread up ahead on the other side of the street. She watched as Steve and Sharon sat down at one of the iron wrought tables.

"Shut up and lemme drive," she grumbled, parking at the other end, the restaurant in full view (this wasn't suspicious at all, nope). People were sitting in the patio section, couples and business people, friends and family members; all enjoying the late spring sunlight. Women in sundresses or shorts with floral print tops, men in business suits or colorful polo shirts and cargo shorts. Steve and Sharon sat in front of them. Sharon had a nice sundress on and Steve… Steve wore a blue button-down shirt and khaki slacks.

"He always wears old man clothes," Sam grumbled. "I told him to wear something nice."

She glared at Sam. Steve wearing 'old man clothes' was a good thing. It may put Sharon off (seriously, who would want to date a hunk like Steve if he dressed in clothes more fitting for your grandfather). Though the color of the shirt was in poor taste, it brought out his eyes too much and his eyes were one of his best features. She reached over and popped the glover box open, snagging the binoculars. "Are those standard Shield issue?"

"Navy SEAL," she corrected, leaning forward and bringing them to her eyes. She adjusted the focus until she could see Sharon and Steve clearly. "Damn. He's smiling."

"Isn't that usually a good thing?" Clint asked. She glared at him before going back to spying. Cars began to encroach on her field of vision, the light must be red and she clicked her tongue when they blocked her view. "I can't believe you won't talk to him."

"I talk to Steve plenty of times."

"You know what I mean."

"If he's happy why are we doing this?" Sam asked, leaning forward, arms resting on the front seats. "Isn't that what you want Natasha? For Steve to be happy?"

Yes, I want him to be happy… happy with me. "Of course I do," she snipped. "I'm just worried about him. Women these days can be man eaters."

"He's made of sterner stuff than you give him credit for," Clint said, "he  _did_  serve in WWII."

"I know that. Everyone thinks he's a lost little lamb but he's not," she said, peeking through the binoculars again, she couldn't see anything still.

"And he's just awkward around girls cause he doesn't have any experience, he's not naïve and stupid," Sam added. "Besides, Sharon helped us out a few times when we tried to track down the Winter Soldier. She's cool."

That bit of information hurt a lot more than it should have. Steve had asked her to come, not in so many words — in fact he was asking if she was going to tag along with Fury — but she knew he wanted her to come. They  _had_  made a great team. It hurt knowing that he had contacted Sharon instead of her. Not that I made myself available. She lifted the binoculars back to her eyes once the cars had moved on. They had leaned closed, talking about something that made them both laugh and Steve grin. A waitress came out with two trays: one a salad and the other a sandwich. "He's never going to be full with just that."

"And how would you know that?" Sam asked. She waved her hand at him. "You know what, this is getting stupid. He's happy, she's happy. Nothing  _bad_  is happening. Let's just go get ice cream."

Everything bad is happening, Sam! He's enjoying himself with her. "She ordered a salad," she announced.

"Oh my god, a salad!" Sam flopped back into the back seat. "What is the world coming too."

"She must be watching her figure," Clint said, leaning on the dash, he was watching too, the spy in him getting the better of him. "You know what that means?"

"She's into him," she grumbled. "I should have told him to call Lillian."

"The one with the lip piercing?" Clint asked, she nodded. "You know this reminds me of that one op, where we had to stake out that drug dealer."

"Oh, yeah. Vegas, I remember," she said, smiling. "That was a fun one. You and Laura just stated dating."

"Yeah, we were," Clint said, a wistful note in his voice. Sam shifted in the back seat.

"Guys, Steve's happy. Let him be happy Poor man's been frozen for seventy years. Let him get laid."

"Steve doesn't want to just get laid," she said as the cars return to obstruct her view; she shot Sam a glare. "He wants someone with shared life experiences."

"Well, Sharon has that," Sam said. She growled. "Can we get ice cream now?"

"We  _will_ ," she hissed. "Just a few more minutes. I'm sure she's going to break his heart." The cars began to move again, and they were eating. Well Steve was eating, Sharon was picking at her food and doing a lot of talking. She watched them, wondering what they were talking about. "Does he seem guarded to you?" she looked at Clint.

Clint shrugged. "A little bit, but it's a first date—"

"Steve said it wasn't a date, they're just getting lunch," Sam said from the back seat.

"—so he's keeping his cards close to his chest."

"Guys!" Sam whined.

"You can walk to the ice cream shop, Sam! Its two blocks down." She glared at him. "This is important! This is the first date that my best friend—"

"Hey, I thought I was your best friend!" Clint said.

"— has had in seventy years! I want to make sure she doesn't break his heart!" She shoved Clint. "You're more like a brother to me than a best friend."

"Fair enough," Clint said.

"Well you might want to tell him that because he's coming over right now," Sam said, and sure enough Steve was weaving through traffic, smiling and waving at people as they stopped, almost hitting him in some cases. As he drew closer she could hear him say sorry.

Shit shit shit  _shit!_  This was stupid, and she would have never been so careless as to park in such an obvious spot, knowing that Sharon had espionage training (though not as good as what the Red Room put her through) and Steve always was on the lookout. She shoved the binoculars back into the glover box as Steve walked up to her window and tapped it. She rolled it down. "Hey, fella." Plastering on her sweetest smile, reining in her emotions so nothing peeks out from her eyes. Steve knew her for three years now, but he still wasn't good at reading her. I can pull this off. I can totally pull this off. I'm the best spy that ever spied. I'm Black Widow.

"Nat… what are you doing here?" Steve ask, incredulous. She could smell the sour stink of the alley, the car exhaust from the street and his cologne. Pungent and earthy, maybe a hint of mint and cedar; she licked her lips. He bent down and peered into the car. "Hey Clint, Sam," he greeted. The two men waved back.

"Just driving around. Trying to find the ice cream shop."

"It's just up the street, about two blocks," he said, ever helpful, and even pointed in the same direction she had pointed to moments earlier when Sam was complaining.

"Thanks." She smiled, nodding. "What have you been up to?" she asked, smiling at him as if nothing was amiss. He stared at her, glanced over his shoulder and then back at her.

"I was having lunch with Sharon," he said. She nodded. "You told me to call her, so I did."

"And about time!" Sam said, interjecting, she glared at him. "We're going to go back to the Tower now, so you can finish up your date."

"It's not… really a date," Steve said, sounding a bit awkward. Her eyes met his and she saw something that gave her hope. "But maybe that's a good idea."

"You know," she drawled, drumming her hands on the steering wheel. "You and Sharon can come with us." What are you doing Romanoff? Inviting Steve and that… that…  _woman_  to get ice cream? Going to get ice cream was just a cover story! "The more the merrier."

"Okay, we'll meet you over there," Steve said, patting the roof of her car. She gave him a smile that she hoped wasn't too brittle and watched him walk back across the street.

"Don't." She said, glaring at Clint and Sam as she put the car into drive and pulled out into traffic.

* * *

Natasha stared at the city below her as she cradled her mug of tea; it came alive at night with its neon lights and the streetlamps, cars going this way and that. Cities at night had always captured her heart. Ice cream had been a painful affair. Sharon ended up declining the invitation, so it was just her, Steve, Clint and Sam. They crowded the tiny table, squashed together like sardines and eating their ice cream. Clint teasing Steve about getting plain vanilla without any goodies. She was wedged up against Steve; it was difficult to keep her face impassive, but she managed, though his ears were red by the time they were done.

She sipped her tea. "Yeah… Yeah, I understand—" she turned her head at the sound of Steve's voice. He was a few feet away, one hand is his pocket as he paced, talking to someone on the phone "— yeah, it's just not gonna work out between us Sharon." He was silent, listening to Sharon talk. "Hey, at least we tried. Sometimes it just… it seems like it'll work but in the end it won't. We can still be friends." Another few minutes of silence. She started to feel guilty, coming between Steve and Sharon. She should have been happy for Steve and supported him, even if it was with another woman; that is what a  _real_  friend would have done. "Okay, I understand, see ya around then. Bye."

She took a sip of her tea and felt her heartache as Steve came over to stand by her. "Hey," she said, turning and leaning against the window. He gave her a wane smile. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" he turned to look at her, flummoxed. She took a sip of tea and watched the traffic inch along the orange lit streets below.

"For coming between you and Sharon. Look, maybe you should call—"

He smiled, shaking his head, his hand resting on her shoulder. "No, Natasha, I was getting the feeling during the entire lunch that… well, something wasn't clicking," he said. "You stalking—"

"Spying, it was spying," she said.

"Alright,  _spying_ " — he gave her a pointed look — "on me made me realize that maybe Sharon wasn't the right partner."

"That's good," she said, smiling at him as she took another sip of tea. "That's good I could help you realize that."

He stared at her, his hand fell from her shoulder and an awkward silence smothered them like a cold wet blanket. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, looking about and drummed her fingers along her cup. He rubbed the back of his head, staring at the night-lit city and shoved his hands in his pocket. "Y'know… I'm surprise how much the city has changed." He gave her a weak smile. "I mean, I know the city has changed" — he gave her a sheepish smile — "but, in many ways it has stayed the same. When I first came out of the ice, I looked up everyone I used to know. Most of them are dead, but Peggy was alive, so that was a nice thing. I went to a restaurant and sketched a building. I never felt so alone in my life."

"I know that feeling. After Clint rescued me from the Red Room, escaping my training… those first moments of freedom, I didn't know how to act. Sometimes I'd just sit in Central Park and watch people, wondering about them and their lives." She looked at him, studying the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose and the arch of his brow, how the orange light from the city below gave his hair a muted golden glow. A car blared its horn, sirens howled somewhere in the distance. Everyone was unaware that two people watched from upon high. "It's a terribly feeling," she said, "being surrounded by people yet knowing you're completely alone."

"Yep." The silence pressed in around them again, the awkwardness overbearing; she opened her mouth to say something but decided against. "Well, good night," he said, patting her shoulder. He walked away, his fingers leaving a lingering wanting trail down her bicep. She watched him, her impassive mask fractured. He entered the elevator; the doors closing with a melodious ding. She went back to staring at the city.

"If there was a time to talk to him that was it and you missed it," Clint said, stepping out of the shadows. She scowled at him and drank some more tea. "All that work to make him available and you blow it."

"I'm not going to pick him up on the rebound."

Clint laughed. "Reborn? Nat, he barely had one date with Sharon." He joined her in looking out the window. "If you don't make a move, someone else will snatch him up and you'll be in the same position you were in this afternoon."

"I don't think so."

"You're naïve if you think no woman would want to be with  _Captain America_ ," he said.

"There's more to him than  _just_  Captain America," she said, defensive. "You should know that, Clint."

"Then go talk to him," her friend urged her. "Tell him how you feel. I saw how he looked at you. He didn't want to go but you two just stood there all awkward," he said with a shrug. "I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did." He nudged her. "So, go. Go after him."

"I can't Clint," she said, "I'm… I'm not good enough for him. With my past, how could someone like him want someone like me."

"Hey." His voice was sharp, and he took her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "That day, when I was sent to kill you I saw who you truly are, Natasha. A good person, with a good heart. I made a call, it was the right call. You  _are_  good enough for him. Everyone deserves a chance at happiness."

"Clint."

"Go Nat. Go snag Captain America, take him off the market," he said with a wink. She chuckled. "Break a million hearts in the process. You're good at doing that."

"Only a little." She smirked and finished her tea, handing him her cup. She went to the elevator and pressed the button for the living quarters. It was a short ride and she went to Steve's room. The door opened to reveal Steve in sweats and a t-shirt, his hair a bit damp and mussed. He tugged at the sleeves, the shirt too tight for him; she also noticed that he was starting a five o'clock shadow. "Hey." A smile graced his lips.

"Hey." She returned it, pressing her fingers together. She scuffed her foot against the ground, eyes counting his perfect toes. "Look Steve," she began, meeting his gaze, "I was thinking that… well, are you busy Saturday?"

"Well, all the guys from my barber sharp quartet are dead," he said, "so no. Not anymore. Why?"

"Would you like… irunno" — she gave a little shrug — "to do an activity together, Saturday?"

"An activity?" he arched a brow. "What kind of activity?"

"You know, go play miniature golf or something." She pouted when he laughed. "I'm being serious here, Rogers."

"Are you asking me out?" he asked, incredulous. She flushed for a heartbeat; she was going to murder Clint and make sure nobody found the body. Ever.

"No!" she said. "No, I'm not asking you out. I want to know if you'd like to do an activity on Saturday night."

He nodded, a half-smile appearing. "Fair enough Romanoff," he said, "and yes, I'd like to do an  _activity_  with you on Saturday night."

"Great, uh… seven o'clock?" she asked, a smile wanting to break free.

"Sounds good," he said and gave her one of those winning boyish smiles of his that made her knees weak. "Can't wait."

She nodded, swallowing and licking her lips. She took a few deep breathes. "Yeah, me neither," she said. The awkward silence returned like that one friend nobody likes but can't seem to get rid of. "Yeah."

He chuckled, giving her a winning boyish grin. "Good night, Nat," he said. The door closed with a soft click.

"Good night Steve."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Or kudos if you are a silent reader. I love you guys too.
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> Nemo et Nihil


	3. Missing the Missus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two hours after getting home from their honeymoon, Natasha is sent off on a mission to Mongolia. Steve is left behind; missing her, he hits the gym to vent his frustration out on a punching bag.

The city was dark, Tony had sent Happy to pick them up from the airport; Steve thought that was nice and he was grateful, spending sixteen hours on a plane was not his idea of a good time. Despite the fact that Tony had insisted they could borrow one of his private jets for their honeymoon, both he and Natasha had insisted on doing it the civilian way. That meant airports, flight attendants, and dodging the paparazzi and excited fans when they realized that Captain America and Black Widow were on the plane (and sometimes the disappointed ones when they realized that Captain America and Black Widow were now married).

So, they got back a little after midnight at JFK, both exhausted from jet lag and both thankful that Happy was there helping them to collect their bags and taking them to wherever they wanted to go, which still remained to be seen. "Nat, my apartment or the tower?" he asked, his new wife (it still baffled him that they were married).

"Don't care, just wanna bed," she mumbled, snuggling against him, "tired." Steve sighed, watching as Happy hefted the bags into the trunk of the sleek black car.

"My apartment then," he said as Happy closed the trunk. He opened the door and prodded Natasha into the back seat before getting in himself. Happy whistled as he got into the car, which rumbled to life with a push of a button (he'll never get over the fact cars no longer needed keys to start). He buckled himself in and Natasha, who was too out of it to care. He snuggled her as Happy drove. The late hour afforded them almost empty roads, only a few people out and the occasional cop car.

"How was Tokyo?" Happy asked. Steve yawned, the lights turned red as Happy pulled into the turn lane.

"Not bad, we stayed in Tokyo for a few days before heading to Kyoto. Then we went to one of those hot springs" — he nudged Natasha — "Nat one did we stay at? The hot spring?"

"Shut it, Rogers, sleepy." She snuggled deeper against him and he smiled at little bit. "It was Kurokawa, near Mt. Aso."

"Yeah," he said, "great place. We stayed at one of the resorts. Of course, Tony paid for everything. Then we went back to Tokyo for the remainder of the trip. Real fun too. Gotta see Kamakura and the giant bronze Buddha. Akihabara was, wow. Lotta tech and cartoons—"

"Anime, Rogers." Natasha cracked an eye open. "Stop talking, trying to sleep. You can tell everyone tomorrow when we go to the Tower."

"Okay, you just sleep honey," he said and pressed a kiss to her head. Happy didn't ask any more questions either. He looked out the window, the city mysterious and pretty, glowing like a jewel in the night. They left Queens and made their way into Brooklyn, where his apartment was. Prior to his relationship with Natasha, he spent maybe twenty-five percent of his time here, the rest of it was spent at the Tower. He didn't like being alone and Tony was always at the Tower if nobody else was. Then he and Natasha started dating and they began to spend more time at his apartment (or hers) than at the Tower.  _Especially_  when their relationship got intimate and Tony flipped through the security footage one day and happened to find them in the thick of it.

His apartment building was on the pricier end of Brooklyn, so it was quiet and well lit. Natasha had fallen asleep on the drive over. He carried her, Happy carried their bags and unlocked the door. "Just set them in the hallway, we'll take care of them tomorrow."

"Gotcha, Cap," Happy muttered and set the bags down before getting the rest. He smiled, thanked Happy again and bade the man goodnight; he kicked the door close. He fumbled with the lock, his grip on Natasha precarious as he tried to balance her weight and use his hand.

"If you drop me, Rogers, there'll be divorce papers in your hand tomorrow, understand?" she growled. He flushed and managed to lock the door.

"Didn't drop ya," he said, bit breathless and kissed her. "See?"

"Lucky for you." She pressed herself closer to him as he went to their bedroom. He set her down, undressed her (kissing her skin as he did so, despite her protests) and got into bed himself. He yawned, looping his arm over her shoulders and pulling her close.

"Love you," he whispered.

"Love you too," she said. "No more talking," she added, he chuckled, spooning her. "Though it's good to be home."

"I thought you said no more talking?" he couldn't help but smirk. "Though I agree." She elbowed him in the gut. It hardly hurt, in fact he didn't even feel it but he grunted all the same. "Meanie."

"You're a terrible liar," she mumbled. "Next time it'll actually hurt." She pressed herself closer to him. He smiled, kissing her nape. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the night settling over them, comfortable and familiar. Her breathing evened out and he felt his own eyes slip close. He was home in bed with his  _wife_  after their honeymoon. He couldn't be happier and nothing,  _nothing_  was going to ruin this.

He should have known better. Should have listened to his mother when she told him about tempting God. They had been home for maybe an hour or two — if he had to guess — when one of their phones went off. He opened his eyes, trying to figure out who's phone it was. Natasha shifted in his arms and sat up.

"I'm going to kill whomever is calling," she groused, getting out of bed and padding towards the front door to get her phone. "Nobody will find the body,  _ever_. I swear—" she finished the sentence with several Russian curses and answered the phone with a curt: "Romanoff."

Steve tried to not feel irked by that, but he did. While Natasha had changed her civilian name to Natasha Rogers, she didn't do so professionally. It was better because it meant less paperwork and it hid the fact that they had gotten married from their enemies (in theory, he was still amazed how fast things traveled via the internet). "Nat?" he called after a few minutes of silence. He sat up when she didn't answer. "Nat?" he said again. More angry Russian and the harsh glare of the bedroom lights a moment later. "Jesus, honey," he hissed as he shielded his eyes.

"I think murder is too nice," she said, voice beautiful and serene as she lugged her suitcase into their bedroom. "I think some torture and maiming are in order." She opened her suitcase and began taking out her clothes and the souvenirs, tossing them onto the bed in a haphazard fashion. "Feed the corpse to the pigs so there's no body, scrub everything with bleach."

"Natasha," he sighed, rubbing his face. "Mind filling me in?" he asked, peeking at her through his fingers. She softened, smiling at him. By the look on her face, he must be adorable. She went to the closet and began to pull out a few clothes and her sleek black catsuit.

"Clint's stopping by to pick me up," she said, a chipper note in her voice. He frowned as she put bullets and guns into her suitcase, a box of Widow's stings landed with a metallic clatter. He furrowed his brow. "We're going to have a brother-sister outing in Mongolia." She spun around and put her Bites in last before zipping the entire thing up. "Good thing I didn't get a chance to unpack from my honeymoon."

His eyes widened as his sleep addled brain put everything together. "Oh, Natasha. I'm… I'm sorry."

"Fury's dead," she said tightly. "I'm going to kill him and if you tell anyone, I'll have to kill you too."

"I won't, I swear. Cross my heart," he said and crossed his heart. She smiled at that, but the tears welled in her eyes anyway as she came over to him. He hugged her, kissing her cheeks and lips. "I'm sorry."

"I know. Fury said he was sorry, but you know how his apologies are."

"Robotic as if this is what us normal people say in these situations?" he asked, trying to get her to laugh a little. "Hey, at least you'll be able to sleep on the plane."

"Not the same as sleeping in my own bed with my husband next to me," she said as she looped her arms around his neck. His hands settled on her waist and smiled. "I was looking forward to your pancakes."

"I was looking forward to lazing in bed tomorrow with you," he said and kissed her collarbone. "Kissing you, tickling you, making love to you."

"Didn't you get enough of that in Japan?"

"Nope." He grinned. "Don't think I'll ever get enough of that face you make when you come." He squeezed her sides. She laughed, smacking him and kissed him, long and deep. He gave a soft moan, hating the break the kiss. "You need to get dress. I'm sure Clint'll be here any minute."

"Yeah." She kissed him again, breaking the contact, got dressed against. He watched her, heart aching that something like this happened  _right after_  their honeymoon. Evil never slept, and he guess that was true. Natasha was Black Widow and they both were on-call twenty-four seven. Still, he wished the bad guys had waited a bit longer. There was a knock on the door and Natasha lugged her suitcase to the door. She opened it.

"Did you guys  _just_  get back?" he heard Clint asked and Natasha growled something in response. He sighed, getting out of bed and pulling on a pair of sweats. Natasha looked unhappy and Clint looked miffed that Fury would do something like this to them. "Hey Cap."

"Clint," he said. "And yeah, we did. Japan was fun."

"I bet." Clint gave him a cheeky grin. "Sorry to be stealing your wife so early but duty calls."

"Eh. Evil never sleeps," he said and kissed Natasha goodbye. "Call me when you land?"

"Yeah, unless we have to go silent, then I'll text you or something beforehand, kay?" she looked at him and patted his board chest. "You make sure to tell the other girls you're married and off limits." She smiled. "Lillian's working for Stark now, don't need her asking for a date. I can't be plotting more murders."

He and Clint both gaze amused chuckles. "Okay, but you know me. Lip rings aren't my thing." He pulled her into a kiss and tight embrace. "Come back to me," he whispered, "fight to come home to me."

She smiled, love and adoration in her eyes. "I will." She cupped his face, running her thumb along his cheekbone. Clint gave an awkward cough. "Bye, Steve," she said, pulling away and dragging her bag behind her.

"She'll be fine," Clint said. "I'm with her."

"I know and that's why I worry," he said, watching as his friend and wife leave. He closed the door with a tired sigh, locking it. Everything felt hollow and empty now without her. He twisted his wedding band, a nervous habit he was developing before he went back to bed, hoping Natasha wouldn't be gone too long.

* * *

It had been a week since they got home, a week without his wife. A damn week feeling like his wedding — which had been plastered on every magazine cover, social media page and celebrity news channel, despite all the measures they went to  _prevent_  such publicity — had never even happened in the first place. Steve Rogers wanted his wife back. He prided himself on being levelheaded, patient and cool under pressure. He was a soldier, he knew how to keep his emotions from messing with what needed to be done. Yet he was letting his emotions affect him. He was unhappy, and it showed. It was subtle, a bit more snark in his replies, some grunts and silent nods, avoiding people. He tried to keep busy.

He hung out with Tony and Bruce, catching up on sci-fi flicks he missed in the seventy years on ice. He and Sam went out on culinary adventures, caught a couple of Broadway plays; consulted on military matters for the CIA and the Army. Hell, even Fury called him once to get his opinion on something. When he asked about Natasha, Fury had said that she was fighting Mongolian Death worms. He knew Fury long enough to understand that was sarcasm and he wasn't going to get any more information out of her.

When he wasn't hanging out with his friends or talking to the top brass of government agencies, he wandered New York or drew, but mostly he went to the gym. He found solace there. He used the one at the Tower, less chance of people staring as he benched 500 lbs as a warm up. Less questions about why he needed a small pyramid of punching bags. Today, however, he wanted to feel like a normal person (who was he fooling, he never had been a normal person). He went to the gym near his apartment, it was a little after five o'clock so there wasn't a lot of people and he had the gym more or less to himself. After weight training, he went and began to lose himself in the rhythmic patterns of boxing. The give of the punching bag beneath his fists, the way it swayed with each hit. Mind numbing and, in a way, therapeutic. Sweat beaded at his hairline, trickling down his neck and the corners of his face. He vented his frustration at hi situation — newly married with his wife outta town — on the bag. Someone cleared their throat, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"You're really going to town on that bag," the guy said, "rough day?" He pulled the towel from his neck and began to get ready for his own work out. Steve nodded.

"Yeah," he said, catching the bag and steadying it. He took a few deep breathes and began to punch the bag in a halfhearted manner, watching the new comer. "My wife's on a business trip," he said and resumed a faster pace, driving his knuckles into the leather of the bag as the mere fact Natasha wasn't at home waiting for him or here, working out with him, galled him anew. "I miss her."

"Thank goodness for the business trip," the guy muttered. He caught he bag again and stared at the man, flummoxed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. The guy stared at him, imploring him to put the pieces together and when he didn't, the stranger gave an exasperated sigh.

"It's just… the way you were going to town on that bag," the man said, "I just… I'm just… I'd hate to see what happens when you don't miss her."

"I'm still confused," he said. He didn't understand what him beating a punching bag had to do with Natasha gone. He loved her, he wanted her home, he was frustrated he couldn't hold her and sing Irish folk songs to her loudly and badly offkey, watch cheesy romcoms with her or just be with her. It was better than punching the walls of his apartment, cheaper too. "What does my work out have to do with me missing my wife?"

"Well, you're frustrated right?"

"Yeah." That was rather obvious considering how he was beating the bag.

"Because you miss your wife, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"There you go," the man said. "I'm happy she's on that business trip, she probably is too."

"No, she's not," he said, "she's upset about it." He was getting hungry and found the man annoying and a bit creepy.

"That poor woman," the man said as Steve gathered up his things. "Doesn't know anything but men dominating her. Probably started with her father and now it continues with her husband."

It clicked, suddenly and sickeningly. Steve dropped his bag and walked over to the man, catching his punch with ease and pulling him a little bit away from his punching bag. "Listen  _pal_ ," he said, "you don't know me, and I don't know you, but I'll give this to you straight: I would never  _ever_  hurt my wife. I love her."

"Of course you do," the guy said with a bit of a sneer in his tone. He clenched his jaw and let the man go. "Surprised you even let her have a job, let her go on a business trip."

"You got me pegged wrong," he said, knowing if he lashed out he'd be feeding right into this guy's delusions. He picked up his bag. "See ya." He walked off.

* * *

He stopped by a tiny Chinese place and ordered enough food to feed an army. The little old Chinese lady didn't question it, but her daughter arched a brow at the amount of food and he gave her a dazzling smile. She smiled back with a tiny blush and handed him his two bags of food. He thanked her, tipped handsomely and left. He got home, sighing when he saw it was dark. Natasha wasn't home yet. He set the food on the counter and took a shower. He grabbed a box of lo mien and a fork, plopping himself on the couch to watch the ballgame and hope that his next phone call would be from her informing him she was on her way home.

He was half way through a box of sweet and sour shrimp when a knock sounded. He frowned, setting down his dinner and got up. He opened it, surprised to see two officers at his door. "Can I help you officers?" he asked, sleeping shabby in a pair of grey sweats and a form fitting spandex workout t-shirt. Both men looked at his bulging biceps and then at their own arms.

"Yeah, uh… can we come in?" the taller of the two asked. Steve nodded, letting them in. He closed the door and leaned against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. This caused his chest, arm and shoulder muscles to bulge further.

"Did I do something wrong gentlemen?" he asked, thrown for a loop as to why police officers would show up at his house. He was glad that his shield was in his bedroom, he didn't need them to know he was Captain America. "If I did, I'll come down to the station for questioning, no problem."

"No, no," the shorter officer said. "We can ask you a few questions here, if that's okay with you?" Steve gave a curt nod, his frown deepening. "Is your wife home?"

"Not at the moment, no," he said, "she's on a business trip. She'll be back tomorrow. Why?"

The two officers looked at each other, the taller swallowed and he noticed sweat beaded at his brow. It bothered him that they were nervous. "It's just we got a tip—"

The door knob twisted, the door opening, and Natasha walked in, dragging her suitcase. She looked haggard, her catsuit torn in a few places. There was a cut on her brow that had been taped together, a smaller one on her chin, grime on her cheeks and dark circles beneath her eyes. She looked like she needed a shower, dinner and a solid twelve hours of sleep. "Steve?" she asked, looking at the two officers. "Did you  _do_  something while I was gone?"

"No," he said, coming over to press a welcome home kiss to her brow. "They were just telling me why they're here." He gestured to the police officers. She gave them a level stare.

"Good, because I want to know why cops at in my home, interrogating my husband when I come home from dealing with Mongolian death worms."

"Aren't those things like… an urban legend?" the shorter officer asked and Natasha fixed him with a withering glower; he swallowed loud enough to hear. "S-Sorry."

"Ma'am—"

"Natasha," she said.

"Alright, Natasha. We uh… got an anonymous tip that there was domestic violence here." At this she and Steve both shared a look and then frowned. "We just came to… well, y'know, make sure things were all kosher here. Your husband, he uh…" the officer glanced at Steve's muscles. "He never hurt you has he?"

" _What_?" Natasha hissed, walking up to the officer. "Are you suggesting my husband  _hits_  me?"

"Ma'am we're just—"

"Do you have  _any_  idea who he is?" she said, gesturing to him. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

"Ma'am, I—"

"Holy shit," the shorter officer said, eyes going wide as he got a good look at Steve and Natasha. "You're Captain America and Black Widow! Todd, it's Cap and Widow!" The man flushed.

"You're right Jeff," the taller said. "Oh, I'm so, so sorry Mr. Rogers erm… Captain Rogers?"

"Mister's fine. And it's okay," he said, waving his hand and giving a lopsided smile. "As you can see—"

"It's not  _okay_ , Steve! Some idiot is implying that you abuse me and sent cops on us! You tell whomever it was that he has never raised a finger against him in violence," Natasha said, "and now I want you out of my house now! I'm in no mood for this! Go or I'll call your superior!" The two officers nodded, bid them a goodnight as they stepped around her suitcase and out the door. Natasha snorted like an enraged bull. " _Ublyudki_ ," she growled, and looked at him. "Hi, honey I'm home."

"I see that," he said, his lips quirking into a smile. He pulled her into a hug and kissed. "I bought Chinese, go wash up and join me on the couch, I'll get a plate together for you."

"Mm, you're sweet." She kissed his cheek. "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

An hour later, she was tucked into his side, content and eating greasy Chinese food with him as they watched  _The Italian Job_. The movie ended and he looked down at her, expecting her to be awake. She wasn't, instead she was asleep. He chuckled and set their plates on the table, picking her up and heading to their room. He tucked her into bed and pulled his shirt off before crawling into bed. She cracked an eye open. "Hey."

"Finally, you get to sleep in your own bed, next to your husband." He tucked some hair behind her ear, smiling when she smiled.

"About damn time," she said and pecked his lips and snuggled into his broad chest. He wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her head. "Sing to me?"

"You hate my singing."

"It's not that bad when you sing softly," she said, eyes closing. "Sing me your favorite song."

"Took the words right outta my mouth," he chuckled and leaned back to turn the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness. He hummed, finding the melody, running his hand through her hair and he smiled a little as her eyes began to droop close again. He began to sing, the rich tenor of his voice vibrating in his chest. " _I wish I was on yonder hill_ _,_ _'tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,_ _till every tear would turn a mill_ _._ _Is go dté tú mo_   _mhuirnín slán…_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel Studios
> 
> I got this idea from a post on tumblr about how a guy went to the gym and noticed another guy going to down on a punching bag. Guy #1 asked if Guy #2 had a rough day, and Guy #2 said he was because his wife was on a business trip and missed her. #1 said it was a very Steve Rogers thing to say.
> 
> Well, some on tumblr took it as to mean #2 was some kinda wife beater and he was frustrated because his wife was not around to punch. Thankfully, the majority of people took it as a guy that dearly loved his wife and was frustrated because she was gone and he couldn't do cutesy adoring husband things for her.
> 
> The song Steve sings at the end is my favorite Irish folk song Siúil A Rún (translation: Walk My Love). I want Steve to sing more, because I can see his mother doing chores around the house singing folk songs from Ireland. So if you guys know any good Irish folk songs, please tell me because I adore the idea of Steve singing in Irish.
> 
> Save an author; leave a review
> 
> Silent readers, I love you guys!


	4. You are Only Thing I Think about At Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of Romanogers Week 2018. James refuses to take his formula, and Steve just wants Natasha home.

James' cry broke the silence of the apartment; Steve's eyes opened and he groaned, flopping his arm over his eyes. He was bone weary, which was saying something since the serum staved off fatigue, allowing him to require less sleep than a normal person. James cried louder. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he grumbled, getting up and trudging to the nursery. He flicked the lights on, squinting in the harsh brightness and went to his nine-month-old son's crib. "Easy buddy," he said. He was standing, dressed in a fuzzy onesie with Captain America plastered all over it, big fat tears rolling down his pink chubby cheeks. Bruce had said the earliest babies start walking was around nine months. James hadn't taken any steps yet, but he was standing every chance he got. Clint and Laura both warned him and Natasha about him become mobile. "Bad dream?" he asked as he scooped up his son, large hands going around his tiny chest. He felt his bottom; the diaper was dry. "C'mon, time to go back to bed." Steve whispered, cooing and shushing and rocking, one hand patting James' tiny back.

It amazed him how small and fragile James was. He could feel his son's shudders and hiccups beneath his hand and feel the tears against his neck. This was the first mission Natasha had since becoming pregnant and it was taking longer than the projected two weeks. He was worried — it was like a slick oily substance that coated his stomach and made everything taste sour — but he couldn't let it show. James was preceptive for an infant and fed off his emotions. So, he buried his worried beneath all the smiles and jokes and happy daddy he could project for James' benefit. "C'mon, buddy, back to bed," he said again, but James refused to settle down. He sighed, wishing Natasha was here. "Please James, Daddy's tired," he whispered. That was saying something. James only wailed louder and he pulled his son away from him and ran a thumb along the baby's mouth. James tried to latch on. "Hungry, of course." This was another bane he had to face since Natasha left: James hated formula. "Let's see if we can get you to eat something."

Natasha had pumped enough breastmilk to last two weeks. James went through that quickly (his own tiny serum enhanced body requiring a lot more food than the average baby), so that left formula. Specially developed formula to feed a child with a super soldier and a super spy as parents, who also happened to have both his parents' serums. Only problem is James didn't like the formula. And that put Steve in a pickle he hated dealing with. He went to the kitchen, boiling the water and mixing it in a bottle. He tested a few drops on his tongue, deemed it warm but not too warm and sat down on the couch. He flipped the tv on to some late-night reruns of shows he never seen, this one happened to be  _I Love Lucy_. "C'mon James," he said, offering the rubber nipple. James turned his head away. It was too late for this and he didn't want to deal with this right now. "James, c'mon this is all you're getting until Mommy comes home."

James whimpered, pushing the offered bottle away. He didn't want to get the anatomically correct fake boob that Bruce made for him in case Natasha was gone. James whimpered again, he felt like crying along with his son. "Please, James, eat for Daddy. You gotta eat, you're hungry." He looked down at his son, poking his tiny pink lips with the bottle's nipple. "Please." If anyone saw a sleep-deprived Captain America reduced to groveling at his infant son, they'll laugh. James cried again, Steve slipped the nipple into his mouth, but the baby turned his head and it popped out. He set the bottle down and lifted James to his shoulder, rubbing his son's small back. "You gotta take the formula, James. Just until Mommy gets back, then you can have all the milk you want."

James whimpered, tiny hands balling into fists and pounding against Steve's shoulder. It didn't hurt, not really, but James was stronger than normal babies and Steve winced a bit. "Shh, James, shh." He rubbed James' back. Something funny happened on the tv and the laugh track echoed in the room. This was going to be another sleepless night and all he wanted was Natasha to come home and deal with James. He nuzzled his son's soft strawberry blond hair, drinking in that baby scent. "Please, Jamie, eat something. The formula's not that bad." He picked up the bottle, cradled James in his arms and tried again. James screamed, kicking the bottle right out of his hand. It clattered on the ground, the top popping off and formula soaked into the carpet. He closed his eyes and took several calming breathes before setting James down to pick up the bottle and clean up the mess. He glanced at his watch, it was two in the morning, James had been crying for thirty minutes. He finished cleaning up and tried to get James to accept the bottle again.

No luck. His son continued to wail, unhappy. He picked up his phone and thought about calling Tony or Sam or Bucky. Of his three options only one had kids, but Sam didn't know how to deal with cranky super babies. A sound came from the door. "What now," he growled, setting the bottle down, he scooped up his son and grabbed his shield by the door, leveling the vibrainum disk at the center of his chest. He was aware that taking his screaming son into combat was a piss-poor idea  _but_  he was tired.

The door opened and Natasha appeared. She gave a gasp, noticing Steve and his shield. "Steve!"

"Oh thank goodness." He lowered his shield, James clinging to his shirt and hiccupping. "You're home."

"Explains why I'm leaking," she said, glancing at the wet spots on shirt. "Did you use up all the milk?"

"He's been ravenous since you left," he said and handed the screaming baby over to her, and closed the door. With practiced eased, Natasha set her bag down, slipped James beneath her shirt and shifted her bra out of the way. She gave a sigh when he began to suck. He walked up behind her, unclasping her bra to give her some comfort. "Hi, glad you're home."

"Good to be home. Hope he wasn't too much trouble." She kissed his cheek and he was happy to wrap his arms around her waist. She shifted James and he let her go sit on the couch.

"Nothing I couldn't handle, he doesn't like the formula though." He joined her, pulling her close. "I missed you," he said.

"I missed both of you, it was… different. Being out in the field again. You and James were the only things I thought at night," she said. "I just wanted to get it done so I can come home to my family."

"You're home," he said and kissed her cheek. "You're home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel Studios 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review


	5. Wearing Your Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony takes Thor and Steve to Victoria's Secret to shop for Valentine's Day gifts for their special ladies. When Steve gets back to the tower, Natasha has an unexpected surprise for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romanogers Week Prompt #3

Victoria's Secret's color scheme of pink and black was obnoxious. He also couldn't stop blushing as stared at the mannequins dressed in lacy bras and matching panties. The pop music was a dull buzzing sound in the background and all he could think about was how no man (at least none that he talked to) back in 1940s Brooklyn would go and buy bras. Yet, Tony had suggested he get Natasha something nice for their first Valentine's Day as a couple.

Steve took that to mean as a box of chocolates, maybe one of those Vermont Teddy Bears dressed as Captain America (he thought those were really cute), and cook her a nice dinner, have a bottle of wine and Netflix and chill. He and Tony had very different ideas of what  _nice_  meant. Tony's idea was this. It wouldn't be so bad if it was just him and Tony (the billionaire playboy genius philanthropist kept most of the women off him), but then Thor had to express his interest in this holiday that honored his good friend Freyja, and he wondered if Jane would appreciate a romantic gift. Tony being Tony agreed to let Thor tag along.

So, they were standing in Victoria's Secret, with the entire store's collection of women ogling them. He had managed to find one of Natasha's bras and panties for their sizes and was currently trying to figure what the difference was between a Bombshell, So Obsessed, and a demi bra was, all while trying not to cringe in embarrassment or gag at the price ($55 for a bra!). "Do Midgardian women typically have breasts this size?" Thor asked, holding up one of the larger sized push-up bras and pressed it flat against his chest. A clerk came over and asked him if he needed help and Steve breathed a sigh of relief at that. He walked further into the store, trying to find something that Natasha would like.

They had been dating for three months, had sex a few times and all he ever seen her wear in way of undergarments were items made by Fruit of the Loom. He liked that simplicity of it and she did too. He didn't think she needed a $55 bra and panty set to be happy. Tony laughed at something and all the girls gathered around him did too. He swallowed and went back to looking at the selection of ladies' underthings. He picked up a lacy thong. "Great choice Cap!" Tony shouted, from across the room — the collection of women turned to stare at him — and he dropped the thong back into the pile. He heard his name whispered among the women around Tony and a few drifted closer to him, as if he was some wild exotic animal. He flushed, ears turning pink. He wished Natasha would appear and save him from this, but he had told that he and the guys were going out to do 'guy things' and that they'll be back in a few hours, she smiled at him and told him to have fun and enjoy himself. He was a terrible lair and Natasha knew that, so there was the off chance she'd not believe him and be his lady in white and save him.

"Definitely not enjoying myself," he muttered as he picked up a pair of boy shorts, wondering if Natasha liked wearing these. He glanced at Thor who had several bras draped over his muscular arms in several different styles ranging from simple cotton with some lace to flashy ones with seed pearls and sequins and other sparkly things. He also had several different types of panty in his big hands. The Asgardian Prince grinned, nodding at everything the clerk said and Steve kept his mirth to himself, knowing that Tony was going to spend a small fortune on this outing (he had generously offered to buy anything Steve and Thor found). He went over to Victoria's Secret's Body collection, smiling a little as he touched the soft cup of the bra the mannequin wore.

"It's a favorite," a woman said, she had a name tag and a headset on. "Good every day bra. Great support and super comfy."

"Oh, thanks," he said, "I'm not sure uh… what she erm… likes." He flushed, staring and the rumbled scrap of paper in his hand that had Natasha's sizes written on it. "Never shopped for bras before."

"It's okay, we get a lot of guys like you in here," she said, "though none are as cute as you or blush like you about this." Steve felt his cheeks heat further. "I'm Stella."

"Steve Rogers," he said, it was a reflexive habit, introducing himself in that manner. He saw Stella's eyes widen and pressed a finger to his lips and gave her a wink. She smirked, knowing she'll have some sort of points over her fellow employees by helping Captain America pick out bras and panties for his girlfriend.

"Do you know what bran she normally wears?" Stella asked. "And her size?"

"I do." He handed her the scrap of paper. "I think she wears Fruit of the Loom, but I can't be sure." He flushed again. "I mean, I've taken her clothes off and well, I just… I'm n-not paying attention when… well,  _you know_  but… I uh… it's cotton… I think?" Stella stared at him with a blank expression on her face. Good job Steve, another foot-in-mouth moment. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Just wanna get her something nice, cause she's my best girl." He tapped his toe against the floor, his feet more interesting than the girl helping him or the bras.

"And that's what we'll do," she said, beaming at him. "By the sound of it, I think she'll like a Body, maybe a Perfect Shape." She waved him over to another counter, clicking her tongue as she looked for the right size. She pulled open the draw and Steve was met with a riot of color and patterns. A lot had hearts and kisses considering the holiday, but he was drawn to the good old fashion black. Stella watched him, pulling out the black bra with a butterfly style lace pattern on the cups. "Can never go wrong with black. Does she wear white often?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "She doesn't." He picked a soft green one as well, smiling as he ran his thumb along the material. "Panties?" he asked.

"Right, so we have some here, but if you want a better selection we have more over there. You can mix or you can get the Body panties. Which are here and she's a" — Stella glanced at the paper — "and we have her size." She patted the pile of panties. "Does she like thongs? Cheekinis? Hiphuggers?"

"I uh…" he swallowed, "I don't know." He thought of Natasha in her cat suit, and how the leather would stick to her perfect ass. He swallowed, blood rushing south at the mental image. "Cheekinies?" he phrased it as a question. Stella smiled, pulling out a black and green one. He accepted them. "You can head up to the checkout. Mention my name, kay?" she winked.

"Will do, thanks for your help, I appreciate it."

"My pleasure," she said, "not every day I get to help Captain American pick out lingerie for his—"

"Girlfriend," he said, giving her that half-smile Natasha said made him look adorable. "She's my girlfriend."

"Well, this mysterious woman is pretty lucky to have you has her boyfriend," Stella said and went off to help another costumer. He beamed at the two bras and their matching panties. The price was still a bit insane, but he figured it would be alright considering—

" _Holy hell Thor!_ " Tony bellowed, drawing his attention. Thor had every bra in the store, along with some sexier lingerie pieces and matching panties for every bra. "I'm not paying for  _all_  of that. I said get Jane something nice, not buy her Victoria's Secret."

"I am unsure as to what she likes. I figured she'll like one of everything, so she can make her own choice." Thor looked at his bra laden arms. "I do like the ones that sparkle, but I don't think they are practical for every day wear."

"This is lingerie for Valentine's Day, it's not about if its practical or not. It's about seeing your girl in sexy underthings and then taking them off." Tony rubbed his forehead. "Put some of this stuff back."

"I do not see how this is about love," Thor said as Tony shoved him to put the majority of the items.

"It's not. It's about getting laid and buttering up your lady friend in order to get that," Tony replied.

"I'll tell Pepper that then," he said, smirking. "May not be too happy come Valentine's Day."

"I have something nice for Pep!" Tony hissed, shooting him a glare. "A nice evening and everything! I know how to treat my woman right."

"Uh-huh." Steve smirked, as the shorter man began to try and convince Thor that Valentine's Day was about both getting laid and expression love and that he had to put the bras back. He chuckled, moseying over to the checkout counter. He thought about getting some perfume or lotion for Natasha, but he could hear her tell him she'll never wear it because it leaves a scent. He picked up some red and pink lip gloss as well.

"Fine everything okay?" the cashier asked. He nodded as he handed over his items.

"Fine, Thor! Three things! Do you have any idea how much these bras cost?" Tony shouted.

"But you're Tony Stark."

"I know who I am, and yes I can afford it, but I'm not going to explain to Pepper why I have a thousand-dollar expense from Victoria's Secret on my credit card."

"That'll be $150," the clerk said. He pulled his wallet out and handed over the money. The girl arched a brow at the bills but said nothing. She rambled off about the special offers, wrapping up the bras and panties in tissue paper and putting them in a bag with ribbons for handles. He thanked her, taking the bag and heading over to wear Tony and Thor stood.

"I'm all set," he said, looking between Tony and Thor. "We ready?" He smiled, ignoring the way Tony glared at him. "Just go with the Body. It's nice and soft, she'll like it. Good every day bra."

"And how do you know so much about women's undergarments?" Thor asked. He shrugged, smirking (more to piss of Tony than anything else).

"Had some help," he said. "I'm starving, so I'm going to head over to Panda Express and get some food."

"I too shall join you," Thor said, setting down his collection of women's undergarments on the nearest counter. A clerk gave him an annoyed look. "I do enjoy the feasting at the Express of the Panda!" He threw his beefy arm around Tony. "Come, Stark! We shall dine at the Express of the Panda! Though Jane tells me they only eat bamboo, so I'm curious as to why you named the cuisine of the Chinese people after an animal that only eats plants."

Steve hid his chuckle behind his hand as Tony was hauled out of the shop by an enthusiastic God of Thunder. "It's okay Tony, we can go to the electronics store next," he said, trying to make Tony feel a bit better. Tony grumbled something and pushed Thor's arm off him.

* * *

 

He got back to his suit of rooms in the tower, smiling as headed to the door. A green light flashed as the sensor registered him. He stepped in and his eyes almost popped out of his head. Natasha was laying on his bed, feet in the air and crossed at the ankles. She was eating popcorn, watching a romcom. "You know," she said, sparing him a quick glance, "you kinda look like Rob O'snake."

"Are you wearing my clothes?" he asked, hiding the Victoria's Secret bag with his jacket. She looked down at herself — dressed in the SSR t-shirt Shield had dressed him in when he woke up from the ice and a pair of his boxers — and nodded.

"Bruce wanted to show my something and Clint tagged along and there was this explosion" — she munched on some popcorn — "and this purple goo went everywhere, and I had to take a shower." She sat up, he noticed that she wasn't wearing a bra; he dropped his jacket and the bag walking towards her. "Your suit was the closest to the lab, so I bored your shower. JARVIS coded me as one of the acceptable people to enter your room when we started dating. Anyway, all my clothes were in mine and—" she gasped when he kissed her, cupping her face in his hands. "Steve."

"I'm not getting my clothes, back am I?"

"Maybe if you ask nicely," she said, he leaned back but she had worked his dog tags free, preventing him from going farther than the chain allowed. She had that playful look in her eyes. "Tell me I've been naughty," she cooed.

"Particularly devious," he purred, kissing again. She giggled against his lips. "Gonna have to take these off and teach you a lesson."

"Kinky," she said, "I'm curious now cause you're rather vanilla."

"Is that a bad thing?" he asked, easing onto the bed, and pulling her close. "I like vanilla."

"No, just that sex is rather tame."

"You did steal my clothes," he said and kissed her again, slipping his hands beneath his shirt that she wore. "Gotta teach you that stealing's bad."

"Borrowing," she said, sighing softly, "with every intent of returning." She grabbed the flipper from the nightstand and turned the tv off. "Now, shut up and kiss me Rogers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel Studios
> 
> And no sex.
> 
> Happy Romanogers Week.
> 
> I actually looked up the prices for a bra at VS (online), and there are about $55 and the panties are $15. So two lip glosses being $5 each, comes out to $150.
> 
> This was fun to write.
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


	6. Glue and Duct Tape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's silent hidden struggle with his depression finally comes to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Depression, attempted suicide
> 
> Also: Send me prompts in the comments if you want a specific theme or topic for this. I'm keeping a list.

_Bop… bop-bop_. Rhythmic.  _Bop… bop-bop-bop_. He lost himself in the motion, the sound of fists meeting leather. The feel of the unyieldingness of the sand. How his muscles strained, putting more and more power. It was never enough. He needed more, more,  _more_. At some point the sounds of his fists hitting the bag turned into the  _ba-eck-tat-tat-tat_  and the  _burp-urp-urp-urp_  of gunfire, the whine of weapons beyond the ken of science. Bucky's screams as he fell from the train. The tears in Peggy's words as she promised him a dance that never was, a dream unfulfilled. Chitauri zipping through the skies of New York, blasting laser weapons at all humans in their path; Stark flying the missile into the wormhole. The glint of sunlight on metal, drawing his eye to the red star on Bucky's left shoulder and his unfeeling gaze. Metal meeting flesh, cracking bones —  _you are my mission!_ — "Steve?" Jab after jab, his blood thrumming in his veins, lungs taking in great amounts of air, sweat beading at his brow. He didn't feel the ache in his muscles, they didn't cry out for him to stop. "Steve."  _Peggy, this is my choice. I gotta put her in the water_. The rush of frigid sea water, the stiffening of his muscles and the creeping darkness wrapping cold tendrils around his body as the Valkyrie slowly sank into Neptune's aquatic realm. "Steve!" A breath of a touch on his back, tearing a war cry from his throat and he swung around at whomever was foolish enough to sneak up on him.

Even pregnant, he was amazed at her reflexes. Natasha took two light steps back, her right hand dropping to the gentle swell of her belly and her left ready to grab his fist. It took him a moment to focus on her surprise and worry; his chest rose and fell. "Nat… Oh God, Nat, I could've hurt you." He wiped the sweat from his brow, running his hand through his hair. The hook supporting the punching bag groaned, the bag swaying and then it fell, the seam at the top busting open, sand hissing out from the hole.

"JARVIS, have someone clean this up, please," she said, glancing up at the ceiling. The lights brightened and there was a gentle beep.

"Of course, Natasha," the AI said. He stooped picking up the broken bag and placing it against the wall. They had been staying at Avengers Tower ever since Natasha had hit the thirteenth week mark. Bruce thinks that this… he hesitated calling it a baby, but it was a baby —  _his_  baby — could actually make it to full term. Not only would this child be the first documented instance of Erskine's serum replicating organically but also Helen Cho's Cradle technology working to repair highly damaged female reproductive organs. Both would be boons for science. The latter pleased him more than the former. "Captain, do you wish to know the results of your work out?" JARVIS asked.

"No." He shook his head, trying to shake the frazzled feeling, trying to ground himself in the here and now. "No, JARVIS, thank you though." He walked over to the bench and sat down, staring at the wrappings on his hands. The snowy woods, the gun fights, orders in both English and German, snowflakes falling on sightless viridian eyes, blood staining the pure snow crimson. If only they'd fallen face down, it would've made it easier to say goodbye. The keen of men gutted by grief forever lingered in his ears.

"Steve," Natasha said, her voice drawing him from the memories, her touch grounding him in the present. "Is everything okay?"

"How are you?" he asked, sitting up straighter and undoing the wraps on his hands. It felt better this way, burying his pain. His mother had too much to worry about when he was a boy, burdening her with his troubles was something he felt she didn't need. "Sorry I woke you up."

She gave him a blithe smile. "I'm a light sleeper, you know that." He leaned into her touch when she fussed with his hair. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Don't you think I slept enough when I was frozen?" He gave her a wry smile as he tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. Ever since coming out of the ice he had trouble sleeping. He told the doctors at Shield he didn't need much sleep thanks to the serum. It was a half-truth, he did need sleep, he just wasn't getting all the sleep he required. Too many nightmares, too many memories to shift through, too many ghosts from the past to reconcile. "How many years has it been since I was thawed?"

"A few," she said. "You did a lot during that time. Saved the world once or twice." She gave him a wry grin.

"Got married." He looked at her as he took her hand and gave it a squeezed. His shoulders slumped as he stared at her belly. A baby was in there, his baby. A new life with the serum that coursed through his blood. Well, not a perfect copy. According to Bruce, the child had Natasha's Red Room serum. A perfect combination, half of each serum. Bruce had explained that the combination of the serums was a possible reason for Natasha's miscarriages. Something about incorrect combinations causing the potential child to be unviable. He couldn't follow the science very well.

"If you're having trouble sleeping, maybe—"

"I'm not," he said, leaning into the touch of her hand on his cheek. "I'm fine. Don't need much sleep."

"You have that look in your eyes." The concern in her voice bothered him.

"What look?"

"A lost look. You're spending too much time in your head, Steve. You need to get out of it." She smiled. "Do you want to touch? The baby's moving. Little flutters." She took his wrist, but he pulled his hand away. "Steve?" she asked. "Are you okay? Are you happy?" The worry in her voice was akin to salt in a wound. It stung, painful and bright; guilt coiling in his stomach. "I mean, this is what we wanted. We both agreed and—"

"I'm… I'm happy, Nat." He rubbed his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes before putting a smile on his face for her benefit.  _Her pregnancy is high risk, Steve, she needs a low stress environment. She's depending on you for a lot of that._ That's what Bruce had told him, grave sincerity in his words. How can she depend on me when I'm a walking disaster? My head feels like a burning house and I'm pretending everything is normal. "I'm real happy Nat." He put his hand over her stomach, splaying his fingers in a protective gesture. "So happy."

The day after their wedding, Fury had told him that some bad people began to whisper about any potential children resulting from his marriage to Natasha. He taken note of the information but didn't worry: children weren't a factor in his marriage. Then Sam had his daughter, and that kicked started  _baby fever_  as Tony dubbed it. They had met with Helen and Bruce in secret, the four miscarriages kept under wraps. Now, pregnant for the fifth time with a child that could be born; he and Natasha went out for a nice stroll. Fury came to him last week with a blurry but recognizable picture of him and Natasha, a red circle around her stomach. "They know, Cap," the ex-Shield director said. That had been all he needed to move his budding family into the Tower. At least here he had Hulk and Iron Man as back up.

He still hadn't told Natasha. "You're not with me Steve," she said, breaking him out of his thoughts again. "Maybe we need to get outta here. Go take a walk later today or ask Tony if we can take his jet to the Bahamas or—"

"We're not going to the Bahamas, Nat," he said, "you're pregnant. I read somewhere that you can't fly after so many weeks."

"And I can tell something is eating at you," she said. "So, tell me." She smirked. "Unless you want me to get it out of you."

"No." He shook his head. "I'm fine Nat. You know Bruce said you shouldn't be worrying about me."

"Sure, I won't worry about my baby's father," she said, tossing up her hands. He flinched, knowing he shouldn't be pushing her away but this was  _his_  problem to deal with. He didn't need her fretting over him when she had so much to worry about already.

Fatherhood. Another thing he had to worry about. He didn't know how to  _be_  a father. He didn't have a father type role model growing up. There was Mr. Barnes but he always saw Bucky's father more as an uncle than a father. He tried talking to Tony about what Howard was like as a father, once. Sorting through Tony's snark and bitter scathing commentary of his father; he determined that Howard took his maxim of focusing on work above and beyond what he should have when it came to his son. A dead end. He tried asking Bruce, but Bruce gave him an evasive answer about his father. He still needed to ask Clint, Sam and Thor. "What was your father like? Do you remember him?"

"My father?" she arched a brow. A hum escaped her, and she leaned against him. "I remember him. Let's see… he was a clerk at the KGB office in Volgograd. Bought me ballet magazines so I could decorate my little room with pictures of the famous ballerinas. Did his best to teach me right from wrong" — she gave a sardonic smile at that — "always kissed me good night, took care of my grandmother. Other than that, I don't remember much of him. I wouldn't say he influenced me in what I became." She put both of her hands on her belly. "My mother… defected from the USSR when I was a year old. I never  _had_  a mother, Steve. I don't know  _how_  to be a mother and yet, I'm going to be one in a handful of months. I'm scared, Steve, but I know it's going to be okay."

"How?" he asked. He didn't know that about her parents. He never asked, respecting the unspoken boundaries Natasha laid out early in their relationship: certain aspects of her past were off limits. She told him enough that he had a general idea: lived in Volgograd until she was eight, trained in the Red Room until she was eighteen, worked as a spy ever since and then Clint saved her, and she became a Shield agent and met him. The finer details he didn't stress over, figuring she'd tell him if or when she was ready.

"Because I have you," she said, smiling.

He frowned, finding his knuckles to be more interesting. No evidence left to show that he had been beating a leather bag for an hour. Strong hands with artist fingers, failure clinging to them like tar. "Maybe we made a mistake," he said, his voice soft.

"What?"

He shook his head, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Nothing," he said, "just got a lot of thoughts rattlin' 'round in my head." He faked a yawn. "C'mon honey, you need to get back to bed" — he glanced at his phone — "it's almost five. You need sleep. If Bruce finds out that you aren't sleeping well—"

"I'm  _sleeping_  fine. It's you, who isn't sleeping well." She squeezed his hand. "Have you talked to Sam?"

"I'm fine," he said, standing up and pulling her to her feet. "Completely fine." He pulled her close, smiling at the feel of her belly between them. He ignored the unease in his gut. "I don't need to talk to Sam."

"Even Tony talked to someone, I mean… Bruce may not be the best person to talk to but—"

"I don't need to talk to anyone, Natasha!" he snapped. He didn't raise his voice, his anger was akin to tempered steel, hard and cold. A constant steady pulse. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his noise. "I don't need to talk to anyone."

"Steve, it's okay if—"

"Love, I'm fine. Just got a lot of things rattlin' 'round in my head, right now." He missed Bucky, he missed the Howling Commandos and the rest of the 107th, Colonel Philips, the routine of the military, the familiarity of the 40s, the odd comfort of war.

"When Clint first pulled me out, I didn't want to go see a therapist," she said, "but it got to a point where I wasn't even living. I was existing. So, he took me to see his therapist. Someone that wasn't associated with Shield or the military or any government agency. I still see her, three times a year: March, June and September. It helps."

"I'm glad it helps you, Nat," he said. "I'm just tired right now. Let's go back to bed. Well you go on ahead of me, I have to wash this sweat off me first." He gave her a half-smile, it fell when she didn't return it.

"Steve, I know what it's like to suffer from the mental tolls our lives enforce upon us," she said, taking his hand and kissing his fingers. "I know that haunted look you get when you watch the city. I've seen it in my eyes, in Clint's, even Tony's. And I know it's also okay to —"

"Stop, Nat," he said, "please. I'm fine. I'll be fine. I'll be right here, at your side. Helping you through this." The memories that haunted his nightmares were just that:  _memories_. He wasn't depressed, he wasn't suffering from any mental illness. He just needed to adjust to the new time. I've been adjusting to the 21st Century for years now, I shouldn't need any more adjusting.

"Steve, you don't have to carry the world on your shoulders alone."

He swallowed, his eyes itched with the need for sleep, but if he slept his memories turned to nightmares whispering his darkest fears to him. "We all have our crosses to bare, Natasha" — he cupped her cheek, stroking her cheek bone — "this one is mine."

"But you don't have to carry it alone."

"Christ bore his cross alone. As will I."

* * *

 

Trying to connect the Peggy he remembered to the ailing old woman in the bed before him was like trying to fit a star shaped peg into a round hole. He kept expecting her to tell him it was a joke, remove the wig and be his Peggy again. Or tell him to wake up because this was all just a really bad dream. It never happened. "Steve," Peggy asked, her voice a soft rasp, so alien to his ears. He remembered it soft and sweet, a British lilt to it; in a way it reminded him of his mother's voice. "Talk to me."

"I uh… don't know what to say," he said, leaning forward and pressing his hands together to rest his chin on his thumbs. His eye caught the solid gold band on his left finger  _never alone_  etched into in Russian. It was a heavy weight. "Nat's fine. Baby's doing okay. I'm keeping the world safe." He smiled. Peggy coughed and shook her head, the light was still bright in her eyes, she hadn't slipped into a memory…yet.

"Don't try to be evasive with me, Steve. I'm not dead yet." She reached for him and he grabbed her hand, there was still some strength left in her old gnarled fingers.

"Remember that winter, I think it was the winter of '43, just after New Year's and we went stargazing?" he smiled, a jaunting tilt of his head and a boyish smile spread across his face. "We held hands as we crunched our way through the snow."

"Mmm, yes," she said, "I remember. You told me you wanted to draw comics again, after the war."

"Yeah, I did. I knew then, I wanted to marry you," he said. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the unease he felt. The room was hot and stuffy, smelling of disinfectant and decay, the beige and white walls belying the truth of the place, where the elderly die; abandoned by family and friends. The black and white photos of her husband and children sat on the beside but her children never came when he visited, he never met them. Peggy never talked about them and he never asked. "Only… we never got an 'after the war', did we?"

"Steve…"

"Sorry." He shook his head and leaned back in the chair, putting his foot over his leg and holding his ankle. "Sometimes I wish nobody found me," he said. "Just stayed in the ice a few more decades or I actually did die in the ice. Make things a lot simpler."

"Steve, you… I regret you didn't get to live your life, but you've moved on. You're building a life with Natasha, you have a child on the way. You should be happy."

"Am I building a new life for myself Peggy?" he asked. "Or am I just trying to fit new pieces into old holes." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I still haven't found him Peg. Bucky's alive and I still haven't found him."

"You'll find him again, Steve," she said. "But tell me of your baby, any names?"

Names. Christ, he hadn't even thought of what he'll call his baby. At Nat's last checkup they found out the sex of the child. "I'm… it's a boy," he said. Natasha had been more enamored with their baby than he had been. He felt like he detached from his body, watching him and his wife watch the screen with their child. "Nat's thinking about Joseph, after my father. I'm…" he licked his lips.

"What do you want?"

"James," he said. "After Bucky but she's… I don't know Peggy. I'm… I don't think I can do this." He stared at the floor, the carpet was navy with some Fibonacci pattern in a horrid olive green. Discolored spots marked stains from previous patients. Dugan was in a nursing home when he got out of the ice, too far gone to remember much, his granddaughter had politely asked him to leave with a promise that she'd tell him of his visit. He got a message from her a week after telling him Dugan had died. The other Commandos were already dead. Colonel Philips had died in the 70s, and Howard in '91. Peggy was all that remained of those he knew. "It's not fair."

"You of all people should know life isn't fair, Steve."

"I wanted you," he whispered. "After the war… I had plans for us, a—" a dry humorless laugh escaped his throat. "An American dream for us. A nice house, a dog, couple of kids" — he ran his hands over his face — "even a white picket fence."

"Do you love Natasha?"

He hesitated, the weight of his wedding band heavy on his finger. He cried at his wedding, his throat too tight that he couldn't even say  _I do_. He nodded instead; his hand shook as he slipped the wedding band on Natasha's slim finger. His heart that day had been full to bursting with love for her. Now... "I loved you, Peggy."

"And your wife?"

"That should have been you."

"Steve."

"Sometimes I want to go to Fury and ask if he can put me back on ice. Just keep me on ice until a few centuries past or what have you. Or never wake me up. I can't do this." He hung his head, he wouldn't allow her to see his tears. "I can't do this anymore. I can't. It's too hard. I can't be a good husband to Nat, I can't be a good father to my son." Tears dripped from his nose. "I'm not strong enough Peggy."

"Steve?" Peggy's voice filled with disbelief and awe. "Steve… you're alive. You're alive."

He wiped his tears and smiled at her. "Yeah. It's me Peggy."

"It's been so long," she whispered, her own tears falling down her wrinkled cheeks. "So long."

He swallowed, ignoring the tightness of his throat. "Well, I couldn't leave my best girl, not when she owes me a dance." He always said that to her and she always cried. A nurse came in around then, telling him visiting hours were over. He nodded, gave a weak smile to Peggy and then left.

* * *

 

 _Kricker-kacker… kricker-kacker_. "Captain Rogers, can you hear me? Captain Rogers?" a woman was on his chest, a bright light shining in his eyes. People shouting, the sound of wheels over linoleum, tennis shoes squeaking as people ran. "Captain Rogers, can you hear me?" the woman asked again. Bright white lights passed over head, porous ceiling titles in non-descript white, he couldn't feel parts of his body, was he even in his body. "Captain Rogers?"

"Y-Yeah?" it hurt to speak, hurt to blink, hurt to think. He licked too dry lips, his mouth tasting funny — metallic… ferrous, even — where the hell was he? The woman on his chest shouted something to someone he couldn't see. His head felt like a giant pulsating rock. "Where… Where am I?"

"Maria Stark Medical Center," the woman said. "Is there someone you want me to call? Wife? Friend? Girlfriend?"

Something jarred deep in his mind — why was it so hard to think? — a woman with red lips and cascading brown curls. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on his breathing, trying of figure out why he couldn't feel his toes, why couldn't he feel his toes. "Peggy…" he breathed.

"Peggy? Is Peggy your wife?" the woman stopped talking for a moment. "Captain Rogers?"

"Wife…" he said, eyes fluttering. "… my wife… want…" trying to think made everything dizzy. "Wife…" he repeated.

"Peggy is your wife?" the woman asked. He groaned, eyes rolling back into his head, pain racing along his body. "Captain Rogers!"

"…Nat…"

He was drifting, floating in a sea of white. All around him was endless cold, endless white. Time had ceased to have any concrete meaning, space was a thing of myth and legend. Then he heard them for the first time in what felt like a life time: voices. Hushed voices, shocked voices.  _My God, this guy is still alive!_   _How is he still alive? This isn't possible._  He opened his eyes to see a blue-light lit room, people in masks and suits, eyes large and round due to the goggles they wore. He was cold, so cold. He couldn't feel parts of his body. He didn't know where he was. The muffled voices asked him questions, spoke his name, water dripped into his eyes and trickled into his mouth. It stung and tasted of salt.

He tried to say something, ask a question, but the cold was too soothing, too sweet and it lulled him back into its sweet embrace. He closed his eyes, returning to that endless sea of white and he forgot about the voices and their prodding fingers and the heat that called to him to return.

He remembered heat and fear. Strapped into Dr. Erskine's pod with the vita-rays radiating his body. The serum transmogrified him. His bones breaking and grew growing, his muscles increasing and changing, his heart thundered in his chest. He screamed, heard Peggy shouting, Dr. Erskine calling his name. It hurt. It hurt so much but he could do it. He had lived with pain all his life, what was a little bit more? He told them to continue, that he could take it. His heart beat faster and faster and faster. It would burst forth from his chest any moment, he knew it. Then it stopped. Everything stopped. The pain, his racing heart, his breathing. For a brief moment — no longer than a heartbeat and a hair's breathe — he was dead. The reawakening jolt of his heart made him gasp, the pod hissed opened and he felt the light of the lab pierce the darkness of his eye lids. Cheers and gasps reached his ears. He opened his eyes and winced, everything was too bright, everything was too loud. The touch of Howard Stark and Dr. Erskine too acute for his hypersensitive skin. The smells to sharp and he tasted something in his mouth.

Blood. Blood was in his mouth. He realized that as he came to. The wind howled like a banshee through the broken window. He pushed himself up, amazed that he was still alive and grabbed his shield. He should radio Peggy, give her the coordinates. The ice crack, a sound like thunder. The plane slid towards the water, heaving and groaning, icy cold washing over him. It stung his eyes, made him shiver. His leg was stuck, he tried to kick free, bash it away with his shield. He pulled his leg away, trying to swim but the cold sapped is strength. The light fading as the plane sank further into the ocean. His head popped free and he took in a final gulp of air, the water covering his head. He sank, limbs too heavy with the cold to work anymore. His back hit the chair, something hit his head and the cold mixed in with the blackness. The slow pulse of his heart was the last thing he heard.

He heard beeps. Beeps of machines. Warmth too, soft and cottony. The beeping was stead and grated on his ears, forcing him to the surface of consciousness. Harsh florescent lights burned his eyes and split his skull. He could feel his toes now, and every other ache and pain in his body. The pain made him dizzy. An uncharacteristic whimper escaped his lips. A figure was standing a little ways away, back towards him. Dark hair, wearing dark clothes, talking on a phone. The voice sounded familiar, its cadence refreshing. He picked out a few words: Don't know. Get it done. Alright.

He groaned, leaning back into the pillows. "H… Howard?" he croaked. "Howard, whaddya… Whaddya doin' 'ere?" he asked, tongue feeling thick and useless in his mouth.

"Steve." The man turned, and he realized it wasn't Howard. The man walked over to his bedside, gripping the railing. His face with its neatly groomed goatee was a splotchy jam colored, brown eyes livid with a maelstrom of worry and anger. In a tight voice he forced out, "Damn you."

He stared at the man, his brain fitting the pieces into place one by one. New York and the Chitauri, going into the lab for a new suit upgrade with magnets on his gauntlets to keep his shield in place on his arm, beers and barbeque and ribbing on his patriotic birthday. "Tony?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. His brain wasn't working.

Tony made a growling sound; he looked down, watching his friend's hands twist the railing of the hospital bed in a white knuckle grip. "Damn you."

"Tony, I—"

"No," he hissed, "no you don't get to talk here, Steve. Not after what you did." He frowned, confused, he still didn't remember how he ended up here. "How could you be so stupid. Careless. It's unlike you. I mean, everyone says you like to jump in head first but in all actuality, you're  _usually_  the plan guy — Star-Spangled Banner Man with the Plan and all that bullshit. So, tell me, what were you  _planning_  when you decided to go eighty on a wet, windy road at night?"

His eyes widen at that, surprised, horrified. "I did what?" It came back to him in sickening flashes. Ignoring Happy, taking his bike. The road, winding through Manhattan. The moist spring air in his face, cool and fresh with mist. The rev of the bike's engine. The sign that read: Motorcycles use extreme caution. The red speedometer needle nearing eighty. Somehow, he lost control, spinning-spinning-spinning. An unstoppable force meeting an unmovable object. Mud and grass, the wet snap of bones, the weightlessness of flying through the air. "Dear God…"

"Steve, I—" Tony shook his head, rubbing his running his index finger and thumb along his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Did you even think?" Tony's glare pinned him to the bed (not that he could move if he wanted to). "What would the team have done if you had died? What would Tasha had done?"

 _Did_  I even think. "Tony—"

"Do you have  _any_  idea how worried we've been?" he asked. "I know Bruce told you that Tasha needed a low stress environment."

That was a familiar warning. It jogged something in his fuzzy brain. Something about— "The baby." The pieces clicked into place. "Is Nat? Where is she?" Cold guilt coiled in the pit of his stomach. Flying down to DC, talking to Peggy. Getting back and just thinking about how if only he could end it all, everything would be so much  _better_  without him. How everyone would be so much  _happier_. He looked at his hands. The band of gold glinting in the light. "Is Nat okay?" The tears came unbidden. "Tony tell me she's okay."

"She's… I don't know." He leaned back and ran a hand through his short dark hair. "I don't know Steve. She… premature labour."

He swallowed. "Not another one." He bit his lip. He lost another child. And it was all his fault. He killed his child. He killed his child, because he was stupid and careless and— "I wish the accident had killed me."

"Steve, I… I…" Tony opened and closed his mouth, unsure what to do. He didn't care though. Tony wasn't there. He failed as a father, failed as a husband. Hell, he even failed in stopping Hydra the first time. Zola was right, his life amounted to a zero sum. He wished the accident had killed him.

A hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up. Bruce stared down at him. "Hey, you're awake."

"He's… I…" Tony coughed and paced and ran his hands through his hair. "Bruce talk to him," he said. "I'm going to get some coffee, call Pepper tell her that Steve's okay." Tony left the room. He didn't meet Bruce's eyes. He just stared at his own hands, eyes tracing the seamless perfection of his skin. Then he studied the blanket, dimly aware that Bruce was beside him in a rickety hospital chair. The clock tick-tocked in the sullen silence. He licked his too dry lips.

"Steve, Nat's gonna be okay. The baby's gonna be okay. She was here when she went into premature labour. They stopped it. Fixed it. Stitched her cervix close. The little guy's right where he's supposed to be for the next four months." He didn't say anything. Bruce shifted, uncomfortable with the silence. "Steve?"

"You mean, it wasn't—"

"No, no, it wasn't a miscarriage. Just premature labour induced by stress. I told you she needed to have low stress—"

"It should've killed me," he said, cutting his friend off. "I  _wanted_  it to kill me." He clenched his hands, glad that Bruce wasn't saying anything. "I don't belong here Bruce. I have nightmares, I can't sleep, everyone I know is dead." He looked up at the ceiling. "Peggy is not really there anymore. And I'm afraid that my wife is just a replacement for something I can't have. That I love Nat because she was just there in my life when I had no one and nothing. I don't want it to be… but I fear its true." He sniffed. "I thought maybe if… If I was gone, everyone would be happier, better off without me. I mean, I was gone for seventy years and the world didn't fall apart."

"I get it," Bruce said, "I do. I put a gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger. The other guy spat it back out. So you know what I did after that?"

"What?"

"I decided to help people. I worked as a doctor, helping sick people because I was good at it." Bruce sighed. "And yeah, there were times when I thought about trying again, but I didn't. A family had taken me in, made me feel a part of their life and even though if I got angry I would become… well the other guy would come out, I felt the hopelessness ebb away a trickle at the time."

"I'm not like you," he said, "you…  _belong_  here. Me? I'm seventy years outta date. All my friends, everyone I ever loved. Gone. All gone. I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know what makes me happy."

"Do I, Cap?" Bruce gave a dry laugh. "Do I belong here? If I get angry I could bring this entire place crashing to the ground and nobody could stop me without causing a bigger mess. Maybe neither of us belong here, but we are here. We have to make the best of it." Bruce hung his head. "At least you have someone that loves you."

"Bruce."

"It's better though. Keeps her safe. It's what I want. Her to be safe. Better that I'm not around."

"I'm sure she wouldn't say that," he said.

Bruce gave him a wry melancholic smile. "You know what I'm capable of, Steve."

"Does it get easier?" he asked. Bruce was silent for a long moment, looking out the window, watching the city in its bright spring riot of colors. The rain and the grey brought out the colors of the flowers and the new leaves. Rebirth, life, a will to thrive.

"In a way," he finally said. "It won't go away, but it gets easier. You learn to deal with it. Figure out how to live with the demons. It's not easy but, there are ways to help. Therapy, drugs."

"Drugs won't work."

"Therapy then." He stood up. "But we'll talk more about that later. I'm going to check up on Nat. I think Tony's trying to get you two in a room together." He nodded.

"Bruce," he said, his voice soft. "Tell her… Tell her I'm sorry."

His friend smiled, knowing and understanding. "I think she already knows."

* * *

 

The hospital staffed transferred him to another room, later that day. It was large and private, a warm beige color. Tony was in the corner yelling over the phone, trying to get the best possible care for two of his closest friends. Natasha was there, her belly a gentle swell beneath the blankets. She didn't cry though her grip was tight on his hand and her smile weak and watery. Peggy's question came back and he knew the answer in that moment. Yes, yes he did.

Natasha wasn't a replacement for what he lost. No, she was a second chance for him to gain what he lost. A family, happiness, a sliver of paradise. "James," he whispered, as he held her hand. "His name is gonna be James."

"Okay," she said, "okay."

She was released from the hospital the next day, the doctors determining that James was going to stay put and that (so far) there were no foreseeable complications and their baby was hale and hearty. He took longer in the hospital, bones healing tended to do that. He was released, weak and tender, several weeks later and Tony had the best physical therapist waiting for him to help him finish recovering. He also called Dr. Lawniczak, Natasha's therapist.

It was August when he finally saw her. She was a middle-aged woman, with brown hair and grey eyes, a few crows' feet at the corners, dressed in a snappy blouse and skirt. She greeted him with a smile as he entered her office and closed the door. He felt awkward as he sat down, staring at his loafers. She sat too, taking her note pad and placing it in her lap. "So, Captain—"

"Please, just Steve." He didn't want to be called "captain" during these sessions. He wanted to think of her as a friend in a way, a friend that could help. She smiled.

"Alright, Steve," she said, "tell me, what's been going on lately?" He licked his lips and glanced at the door. Outside in the waiting room was Natasha, heavily pregnant, eating a donut and reading a parenting magazine. "Do you want me to get your wife? She can sit in if that'll make you feel more comfortable."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No." And he began his story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel
> 
> So, I'm sorry I made you guys cry. This is also kinda like a irunno, the end of an arch that doesn't have a beginning or middle.
> 
> What started out as a discussion among friends about Steve not having PTSD in the MCU (or rather him having it but its ignored and only focused on Tony), me trying to write a fic exploring that, me coming up with this, then today I saw a character study video about Steve's depression (which is a symptom of PTSD), and the relating symptoms of depression and how they apply to Steve as a character though the MCU. Everything just clicked. So you get this.
> 
> I'll probably got back and tweak the ending here cause I think Steve and Nat should talk but my brain is kinda frazzled at the moment and it's late, and I wanted to get this up because I haven't updated anything in ages.
> 
> For those And We Run fans, chapter 27 is well… not started yet. The chapter is tricky because I want to do it right.
> 
> Job hunting is still a bitch, I'm going to go to Seattle in two weeks for a little r'n'r.
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.
> 
> PS: Thanks to toonanimals for Tony's dialogue as he scolds Steve.


	7. Thumb on the Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve got punched in the face twice. Once by his best friend, the other by his young son.

_Brooklyn, New York, December 8_ _th_ _, 1941_

It was cold. A bitter, biting type of cold that seeped its way into the bone marrow and refused to be rooted out by anything. Class had ended early, President Roosevelt's announcement about what had happened the day before in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii was all Steve could think about. It was in all the newspapers, too. Big bold headlines in rich black ink: 1500 DEAD IN HAWAII, CONGRESS VOTES WAR. JAPS BUTCHER AMERICANS. WAR! OAHU BOMBED BY JAPANESE PLANES. CONGRESS DECLARES WAR ON JAPAN! 3,000 CASUALITIES IN JAP ATTACK. All the young men in his class whispered in excited conspiratorial tones about how they'll be enlisting in the service as soon as class was over.  _How dare the Japs attack us like that, we gotta strike back, it's the patriotic thing to do… enlisting._  A few of his classmates asked him if he was going to enlist, he said he would.

Of course, when he told Bucky after class, Bucky was less than enthused. "You wanna enlist?" Bucky arched a brow, as they walked along the street to his apartment. "Steve, have you looked in the mirror recently?"

"What, I'm not handsome?" he asked, a quirky smile on his lips as he brushed aside his bangs. He needed a trim. "I think I'm easy on the eyes."

"If you say so pal." Bucky kicked a rock down the street. "Look, I know you're chompin' at the bit an' all, to get out there an' help, but you uh…"

"I'm what?"

"Well, you're—" Bucky gestured to all of him. Steve frowned, a brow arching. The wind whipped around them and he pulled his worn coat around him tighter. He blew on his hands to warm them, his gloves needed repairing, he should ask Bucky's mom if she could mend them.

"You just gestured to all of me," he griped.

Bucky took off his flat cap and ran his hands through his hair before jamming his hat back onto his head and blunt as a brick said, "Steve, you're skinny."

"So?"

"Look, I know you're thing against bullies and I understand that," Bucky said, stopping to turn towards him. He frowned, knowing where this conversation was going. "But you gotta face reality and—"

"Bucky—"

"And I think it's noble that you wanna do this, Steve, I really do but—"

"Bucky, Bucky—"

"You're not even a hundred pounds an' your asthma—"

"Bucky—"

"I just don't wanna see you get hurt, Steve." Bucky squeezed his shoulder. "There are plenty of other guys that'll punch the Japs in the face and—"

"It's not about that, Bucky. 1,500 people dead. 3,000 wounded, not to mention the ones we sent over to help the Brits fight Hitler. They are laying down their lives, I have no right to do anything less." The wind whipped around them, he pulled his coat closer and shivered. Damn it was cold. "I want to do this Bucky."

"Steve." He held his friend's gaze, determination burning in his eyes. "Jesus Christ," Bucky sighed. "Look, I promised your mam on her death bed, I'll make sure to keep you from getting hurt and—"

"Bucky, I'm twenty-three!" A petulant frown creased his lips. He wished people would stop treating him like a child. Yes, he was small for a man, yes he was sickly, yes he wasn't that most handsome guy at the dance, but he wasn't helpless. "I don't need you mollycoddling me, Buck."

Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and ran a hand through his hair. A car drove by, loud and rumbling as it did so. The wind howled through the brick buildings. Night was settling in, the street lamps started to turn on, mothers hollering for their children to come in from playing. A few passing gentlemen tipped their hats towards them in greeting and hurried on home, eager to get out of the cold. "Fine." Bucky said. "But before you go, I'm gonna teach you how to punch."

"I can punch just fine."

"Sure, you can, pal," Bucky said, slinging his arm over Steve's shoulders as they continued to walk towards their destination. "You'll be a regular Joe Louis by the time I'm finished." He grinned. "Two weeks, Steve. Then we'll enlist."

"You too?"

"Well, someone has to make sure you don't do anything stupid."

He flushed. "How could I, when all the stupid is with you," he said, elbowing Bucky's side. His friend laughed.

"You're a punk," he said, knuckling his skull.

"Get off, jerk," he said, pushing against Bucky. It felt good to laugh after so much death. "So where are you gonna teach me to throw a punch?"

"Goldie's Boxing Gym," Bucky said. "Best place around."

Every evening, after Bucky got off his shift from work and he finished with his art classes, they'd go to Goldie's Boxing Gym. Most of the nights it was instruction and Bucky showing him how to throw a proper punch, how to duck and dodge, weave about his opponent, sharp jabs and mean right hooks. The sandbag was his opponent, a cartoonish caricature of Tōjō or Hitler taped to it depending on the mood Bucky was in for the evening. The owner didn't say anything to them, just mopped the wooden floors and kept the rings clean. So long as they put their equipment back and cleaned up after themselves, he was fine with them coming.

It was their last night here, he thought he improved. That morning he flexed in the mirror before dressing. He gotten  _some_  form of biceps, just a little maybe… he hoped. His mirror was old and dusty, so that may be why he didn't see anything. He was punching Bucky's fists, doing the moves as Bucky called them out when he stopped. "Alright," he said, looking at his shocked friend. "I want you to hit me."

"I'm not gonna hit you, Steve. I'll break something."

"Bucky, c'mon, what's the point of me learning to box if I can't take a hit."

"It's not a matter of you being able to take a hit or not. I know you can take a hit; it's the fact that I don't want you to get into a fight. This is to protect yourself, not to go beating people up."

"You know I don't do that, Buck." He gave his friend a leveled look. "Please. Just one. I need to know that I can block."

"Steve, c'mon, don't do this—"

"Bucky, hit me." He brought up his fists. "I can take it. I can do this all day." He smirked. Bucky let out a long-suffering sigh and punched him. Square in the face. Thankfully, Bucky held back, so his nose didn't break, just throbbed. He groaned, staggering back as he held his hands to his face. Bucky steadied him, helping him down to the bench. "You got me good, Buck." He looked at his hands, no blood. "You got me good."

"Jesus, Steve," Bucky said, he grabbed a damp rag and tilted his face up, dabbing at his nose. He sniffed. "Doesn't look to be broken, so that's good. Just bleeding a bit. This is why I didn't wanna hit you."

"S'kay," he said, submitting to Bucky's fretting. "Be an interesting story to tell." He grinned.

"You two better not be getting blood all over the place," the owner said as he swept. Steve pulled away, wiping at his nose, snuffling up snot and blood.

"We're not Mr. Goldstein," he said. The owner grunted. "Well? Am I ready?"

"One day, Steve, you'll tell your boy about this and he's not gonna believe ya." Bucky got to his feet and collected their gear before taking the sandbag from the hook, he grunted from the weight and waddled it over to where Mr. Goldstein kept them.

"If I live long enough to have a dame look at me twice," he grumbled, unwrapping his hands.

"Any dame would be lucky to have you, Steve, you're a real catch." He shoved the wrappings into his bag and peeled off his sweaty shirt and put a clean on one. He helped Bucky clean up; they fell into a comfortable silence and they left the gym, his thoughts buzzing about a future son.

* * *

_Present Day_

James was six now; Bucky had showed up on their doorstep with Fury in-toe about three months ago. October was just starting, and James was in kindergarten. It was Saturday, Bucky was watching tv, he was in the spacious opening of the living room between the entertainment section and the kitchen. He sat on his knees, James against his chest. "Curl your fingers into your palm" — he watched his son curl his right fingers into his palm, he held James' thumb back — "that's it, keep your thumb out. Good. Now put your thumb over your fingers. There you go, James." He brought his son's arm up and moved it in the motion of a punch, explaining to him how to strike properly.

"He's not gonna get it punk if he doesn't hit something," Bucky said. The crowd roared. "What the hell, he got to the plate first! Open your eyes ump!"

"Language Bucky," he chided.

"Daddy, what's hell?" James asked. He glared at Bucky before looking at his son. He pulled James away, positioning him in front of him. He held up his left hand. James frowned, confused.

"A bad word. Only grown-ups can use it." He tapped his palm. "Punch right there in the middle of my hand."

"No."

"Aww, c'mon James, it's okay. It won't hurt me."

"No, Mommy said I'm only supposed to hurt bad guys," James said, turning to look at Bucky. He tried to remain patient, but James adored Bucky (especially Bucky's cybernetic arm) and Steve struggled with it. The nightmares that had plagued him since coming out of the ice had started to go away. Now everything came rushing back. All his anxieties and insecurities, his depression. He held it at bay, spent talking with Nat into wee hours of the mornings at times. He didn't want James or Bucky to worry.

"It's okay, James. You know that, but sometimes we have to make sure our skills stay sharp so we mock-fight with each other. Mommy and I do it all the time."

James' eyes grew wide, he bit his lip. "You do?"

"Yep, it keeps our skills ship-shape. We don't hurt each other though. So" — he tapped his palm — "Gimme ya best shot."

"You promise, Mommy won't be made at me?" James asked. He nodded, giving his son a reassuring smile.

"She won't, I prom—" he grunted when James punched him in the face. James' aim was off — way off but who was he to judge — and his son had no concept of holding back his incredible strength. He groaned as he hit his back, hand going to his face. James began to cry.

"Steve are you okay?" Bucky asked, coming over to him; he heard rushing footsteps coming down the stairs. He sat up, a bruise was forming on his cheek, near his nose and below his left eye. Natasha was there scooping up James.

"I hurt Daddy! Mommy, I hurt Daddy! I'm sorry, Mommy! I didn't mean to! He told me to! He told me you wouldn't be mad!" James sobbed, clinging to her. Natasha shushed their son, smoothing her hand through his strawberry blond hair.

"Steve, explain."

"I was teaching him to punch," he said, "convinced him it was okay to punch me. I was hoping he'd hit my hand, but" — he pointed to the blossoming bruise on his face — "we need to work on his aim." He stood up and went over to his wife and son. "Hey, buddy," he said, his voice soothing as his hand rested on James' little back. "It's okay. I'll be fine in a few hours, trust me. And you wanna know something else?"

James sniffled, rubbing his eyes. He smiled and wiped some more tears from his son's chubby cheeks, he still hadn't lost the baby fat yet. "Uncle Bucky punched me in the nose once," he said, his voice a stage whisper. He winked and James gasped, head whipping around to stare at Bucky.

"You punched Daddy in the face?" he said.

"Indoor voice, baby," Natasha chided. Bucky laughed as he returned to his seat on the couch.

"C'mere spunk, I'll tell you how that happen," Bucky said. James squirmed, Natasha wincing as his knee rammed into her solar perplex, she set James down and the boy ran over to snuggle against his uncle for story time. He shook his head, smiling at the sight.

"Lemme take a look," his wife said, and he tilted his head down so she could look at the bruise. "He did get you good." She ran her finger along his orbital bone. "Don't feel a break."

"It's just a bruise Nat. It'll be gone by bedtime." He pecked her lips. "Now, I have to go and make sure Buck tells the story properly." He grinned, winking at her and joined his son and best friend on the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel Studios
> 
> The second half turned out to be crap because my nighttime cold medicine is finally kicking in and I'm drowsy. The headlines are real headlines from newspapers the day after Pearl Harbor.
> 
> According to the Fandompedia article for Steve Rogers, he and Bucky attended art class together (I can't see MCU!Bucky as an artist). So I tweaked it so Bucky is working at a canning factory (or something equally dull) and Steve is attending art school. The two weeks of training at Goldie's Boxing Gym is canon according to the fandompedia article.
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


	8. Poppy Fields

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve takes James to visit his father's grave on Veteran's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel Studios
> 
> A note on Steve's accent: Steve has three accents: Irish, Brooklyn and general America. In my head he normally speaks in a general American accent and sometimes his Brooklyn accent seeps through but it pops up when he's stressed. When he's very emotional/reflecting on his childhood, he slips into an Irish accent. This is due to my belief that Sarah had a very strong Irish accent. This was the first form of English he ever heard, and it left a lasting impression. 
> 
> A note on having the watch: It's a farewell of sorts among the military. 
> 
> Thank you, to all the veterans that read this story. Thank you for serving, for on this day one hundred years ago, the guns fell silent across Europe and the War to End all Wars finally ended. November 11, 1918 - November 11, 2018

_November 11, 1918_

The grave was small with a few tiny weeds clinging to life with the stubbornness of weeds. Beyond the silent sentinels of the brick buildings that ringed the little graveyard, Sarah could hear the cheering crowds, the marching bands that struck up in jubilation at the wonderful news: the Kaiser's armies had surrendered. Germany defeated. Victory! The guns no longer echoed across the battlefields. The young men that went to Europe could come home. But for her the guns had fallen silent six months earlier. "It's o'er Joe," she whispered as she knelt and placed a single red poppy on the grave. "Th' war, 'tis finally o'er."

Steve squealed in her arms, not liking the confines of a coat and three blankets. Clear snot glistened on his upper lip. She tsked and wiped it away. "Are ye sure ye wan' ta be takin' 'im to 'is grave?" Winnie had asked her that morning with big fat snowflakes drifting down from the metal grey sky.

"Aye, I do, Winnie. He needs ta know 'bout 'is da," she had told her friend. "Needs ta know 'is da died fer somethin' bigger than 'imself."

She tugged the wool cap she had put on his head earlier that day around Steve's ears. Weary of protesting his current state, Steve gurgled in her arms. He seemed more interested in the falling snow than what was going on, but she'll forgive him. He was a wee babe after all, Joe. "Stevie," she said, trying to get her son's attention. She bounced him. "Stevie, y'da…" she licked her lips, brushing his fine blond hair from his bright blue eyes. "Y'da was a hero, Stevie. He was a hero."

Steve cooed, then sneezed. He grumped for a moment as she fussed over him. That bright spring day in late May, when the army officer came to her door. She felt pity for him when his eyes landed on her swollen belly. She invited him in, gave him some weak coffee and watched him fret for a few minutes before he told her what she dreaded hearing.  _I'm sorry ma'am, terribly sorry but your husband… he's dead._  She took the letter from him but didn't read it.  _You tell your son or daughter that their father was a hero, alright? A real hero, fighting for freedom._  The officer put his hat back on and left. In a haze, she found her Bible, the only thing left of her life in Ireland and tried to find some comfort in the Word of God while tears rolled down her cheeks and her unborn child kicked in her belly. Steve made a loud noise, breaking her thoughts. She looked up as planes zoomed overhead, her son was fascinated with them. "Ye like 'em planes, Stevie?" He gurgled in response and she pressed a kiss to his cherry red cheek.

The wind ruffled her hair and she tugged Steve's little cap down some more to keep the worst of the chill from him. It felt like a bad winter was coming, especially with the outbreak of Spanish flu. Steve had a runny nose since mid-October, his sickly nature caused her to worry and pray that her son survived his first winter. God, Joe… if I lose Stevie… she closed her eyes, not wanting to think about what she'd do if she lost her son. She looked at the tombstone, simple grey stone with  _Joseph Rogers_  etched into the top, below that was  _Husband and Father_  followed by his dates of birth and death. "He risked e'erythin' fer ya, Stevie," she told her son. Steve paid attention to her now, the surrounding environment held less fascination for him. She reckoned it was the shift in her tone that drew her young son's attention. She sniffed, wiping away a tear. "Risked comin' 'ere, ta America 'ith me." It was there one chance at happiness together. A Catholic stable hand and the daughter of his Protestant lord; they could never have had a life in Ireland. America, the land of plenty and opportunity… now there they could have a life. A few people had looked at her with confused pity, wondering why she'd give up the comfort of being nobility to live as a poor destitute immigrant's wife in America. They simple didn't understand what it was like under the yoke of English tyranny, even for a minor noble like her father. She could have stayed, married the man her father chose for her, but she chose what she wanted and that was a future with Joseph. And that meant leaving everything she ever knew and everyone she ever loved behind. She hugged Steve, taking comfort in the sweet scent of his newness. "He loved this country, Stevie. Signed up fer th' Army as soon as he could. I was so proud" — yet also so scared — "He loved this country so much he died fer it." She listened in horror as Woodrow Wilson told the country that they were now at war with Germany on April 6, 1917. Joseph wouldn't sign up until October, when he lost his job. The child in her arms was the product of her last night with her husband. The letters after she told Joseph that she was pregnant were the happiest ones. Together they decided on two names: Steven Grant for a boy and Naomi Elizabeth for a girl. When the doctor placed her newborn son in her arms, she wept for herself and all that she gained and lost in that moment. The wind buffed them again, she held Steve closer to her chest. "He loved ye, Stevie. He loved ye so much," she whispered. The poppy's petals fluttered in the cold wind.

She knelt and held Steve closer to the headstone. Curious, her son reached out a small hand and touched his father's name. She smiled, nodding despite her tears. She saw so much of Joseph in Steve's small face. "Ye gonna grow up an' be big an' strong, just like 'im," she said, as she stood up and cuddled her son close. She kissed his brow, Steve was warm but not feverish. She'll have to head back soon, she didn't want his cold to get worse. "I just know it. Y'da will be so proud o' ye, Stevie. So proud." Steve squealed in delight. She hefted him up onto her shoulder as she walked off, humming as she did so. For his part, Steve stared at the grave of his father, and would unable to understand it's importance until years later.

* * *

 

_Present Day – One hundred years later_

Steve Rogers turned off the car. The neighbourhood hadn't changed much since the last time he was here, though his more vivid memories of the place were about eighty decades out of date. It was cold, the sky a metallic grey and the wind came down from Canada with an icy bite to it. It was quieter than most places in New York, tucked away from the hum-drum of the city, forgotten by all but those that still lived here. It was one of the first places he went to after he woke up. He didn't know how it survived, but he had a feeling Peggy and Howard may have had a hand in making sure his parents' graves remained unmolested by the march of time and progress.

He zipped up his leather jacket, for this he wore civilian clothes. This wasn't like the public memorials he had gone to earlier, dressed sharply in his army uniform or the high profile one with all the Avengers attending, dressed in his Captain America uniform, camera flashes glinting off his shield. No, this was his way of thanking those that had paid the ultimate price for their country away from the public eye. This was Steve Rogers being an ordinary man. He looked at the passenger seat, James was slouching, eyes glued to the smartphone in his hand and the game he was playing. He patted his son's chest with his hand. "Hey, we're here."

"Where's here?" James sat up, a petulant look on his face. "Another dumb memorial?" Steve looked at the ceiling of the car, asking for patience (which James had been trying all day long). Most children growing up in peace time forgot the importance of this day, the significance and why they must always remember and always honor it. James was no exception. To him, Veteran's Day was just another day off from school, a chance to sleep in and hang out with friends. It never occurred to him to wonder why his dad got sad on this day or why his dad went to all these gloomy places. He had done it before he was born, so it was normal. Well, Steve decided that this year, the one hundredth anniversary of the ending of WWI, that James would gain some inkling as to why today was so important.

Only James was being stubborn as a mountain and fighting him every chance he got. "James, please," he said. "This is important."

"I don't see why I hafta come? Why couldn't I stay back at the Tower with Mom?" he whined. Steve rubbed his face; Lord give me patience. "Are ya gonna make another fancy speech here too? I don't see why I hafta come? I don't know any of these dead people."

"Because it's important."

"Is this something that you hafta do cause you're Captain America?" the annoyance in James' tone was grating on a raw nerve. "Cause I don't wanna be Captain America if I have to go to dumb memorials and stay dumb stuff about dumb dead people I don't even know." He pouted.

"James Aleksander," he said, his voice low and broking no argument. He held his son's gaze with an icy glare. "One more gripe from you, one more wise remark and I will ground you from now until Christmas. Now get out of the car." He rarely showed anger in front of his son, but the fact that the color faded a tad from James cheeks let him now his message got across and his son mutely got out of the car. He did too and waited for James to join him and they walked across the street; his hand settling on James' left shoulder. The gravel crunched beneath their boots, weeds clung between the cracks in the cement and on the cold dry ground.

The graveyard had fallen into disrepair and disuses, the church that once stood sentinel over the bone orchard was long gone, the locals cannibalizing it over the intervene decades. The brick buildings remained though, still guarding the dead, as if it was their solemn silent duty until the end of time. Most of graves had broken or missing headstones, the bodies they marked forgotten. It was empty save for them. He stopped at a pair of headstones that survived the test of time much better than their fellows. He pulled James closer to him.

"Sarah Rogers, Joseph Rogers…" James read aloud. "Are they related to you?"

The wind buffed them, and he ran his hand through his son's strawberry blond hair. God this is hard, maybe… maybe I should've left James with Nat. "Yeah, son," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "This 'ere is ya grandma an' grandda." He stood there staring at his father's headstone. Three generations of Rogers. "My mam an' da."

"Oh." James' arm snaked around his waist as he leaned against him. He pulled his son close. The connection was comforting. A silent unspoken bond between him and his boy, something he never had with Natasha.

"E'ery year I come an' pay my respects. Yer grandda… he… he died before I was born. An'… e'ery year me an' yer grandma would come an'… pay our respects." He rubbed at his eyes, the tears cold against his fingertips. "Mam… she uh… would tell me stories about 'im." He squatted down and traced the letters of his father's name. The stories didn't do his father justice. He often wondered about his father, the man his mother loved so much she went with him to another country. He knew he looked like him, same jaw and nose, same blue eyes and blond hair. Same determination and desire to help people. He wanted to be a soldier like his father, even serving in the same unit as his father. But despite all that, he didn't  _know_  Joseph Rogers, and anyone that did know him was long dead. All he had were the stories his mother told him. It wasn't enough.

"Is he the reason why you became Captain America?" James asked. He gave a little smile, taking James' hand.

"Part of it, yeah," he said, not bothering to hide his tears from his son. "My father… Mam said he was a good man. Helped others, stood up for the helpless. She said I'm a lot like him."

"Would he have liked me?" There was a hint of worry in his son's voice. "And Mom?"

"He would have loved you James, and your mom too. Because I love both of you." He reached into his jacket and pulled out two poppies a bit worn from their ride in his jacket. "One hundred years ago, World War One ended, Mam said she brought me here to lay a poppy at my da's grave. I have done it every year since then." He gave a rueful smile. "Almost every year. Couldn't do it when I was fighting Nazis or frozen, but I hope someone did." He handed the flowers to James. "I want you to do it this year."

James looked nervous but took the flowers and twirled them around in his hands. He placed them on the graves. "H-Hey, Grandma… Grandpa… it's me… James. I hope Dad told you about me. I… I wish I had gotten to meet you." He smiled. "When I grow up, I want to be just like Dad. A soldier, Captain America." James licked his lips. "Thank you. I know it's weird, me thanking you, but I gotta, you gave me my dad. He's the greatest dad ever and I love him."

Steve bit his lip, hearing those words made his heart swell with love. He pulled James into a tight hug. "I love you too James," he whispered. His father gave his life for a better future, he did too in a way. He stood, pulling James against his side again. "Rest in peace Da… don't you worry about a thing… James and I… we have the watch."

_In Remembrance to all those that gave their lives for their country, and to all those who served or have served. Happy Veteran's Day._

_11-11-18_

**Author's Note:**

> MCU (c) Marvel Studios
> 
> So, this is inspired by three things: a fic, a gif set, and the end of Winter Soldier.
> 
> I got my hands on some Captain America comics, so far my favorite one is Captain America: White. I really like the art style and how Steve's drawn. Plus while it's pretty dark and centers around Steve and Bucky's adventures during WWII, it's… irunno, kinda lighthearted. Not in the happy-go-lucky feel, there is still that prevailing angst, but kinda gallows humor-y. Irunno, that's the best I can do.
> 
> So, I gave James a Russian name as well. His American name is James Aleksander Rogers. His Russian name is Yakov Stepanovich Romanova, and Nat sometimes calls him "Yasha" which is the Russian diminutive of Yakov (in English she calls him Jamie).
> 
> Riley is Sam's son (for those that didn't figure that out). Bucky doesn't want to see Steve at the moment because it reminds him of what happened when Shield fell and he has Major Angst ™ about it.
> 
> The flashback scene is inspired by crazyk-c's artwork, and I modified the dialogue a little bit. Also, Steve getting excited, that dialogue is from one of the comics (he and Nat are in space fighting aliens, irunno. I found it on google).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this, and to my silent readers just leave a kudos in the comments. ;)
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.
> 
> Nemo et Nihil
> 
> PS: to my And We Run (AWR) readers, I'm currently editing the chapters because someone griped about a Steve consistency issue. I have three chapters left to go (which should be pretty quick) and then I'll work on chapter 17.


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